


Lilith and the Morningstar

by tactfulGnostalgic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Death, F/F, Mixed Greek and Hellenistic Mythology, Original Angelic Lore, Original Demonic Lore, POV Jane Crocker, POV Second Person, Time Skips, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tactfulGnostalgic/pseuds/tactfulGnostalgic
Summary: She's a daemon, a capricious, enigmatic ball of energy that habitually jumps off buildings and a self-described part-time intern of Hell. You should not like her. You do anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**AUGUST 25, 1912**

The summer of 1912 finds you lounging outdoors in South Carolina, which is to say that your skin weighs heavy on your body, and the mere concept of movement feels like an intolerable imposition on your comfort. Jake disappeared sometime in the past hour to go haunt some fresh young soul ready for salvation, and you think, distantly, that you ought to do something similar - but your body is so heavy, and there's a glass of champagne in your hand that tastes nicer than anything you've had since 1800. You've sequestered yourself on a nice little balcony, empty, tucked behind the band's podium and overlooking the mile-long stretch of fluorescent gardens that the owner maintains even in summertime. Vines twine up the pillars that support your balcony; roses pile on the railing. You shudder to think of the cost. You admire the owner's dedication to style.

A bead of perspiration rolls down your temple and you wipe it away before it can smudge your makeup. It took you hours to prepare for the party. You don't know why anyone bothers, though; a few minutes in evening humidity and even the best look deteriorates. Your dress clings to your legs and you're briefly grateful that silk is in fashion. Summer in the Edwardian Era was unbearable. Cotton gowns, you think, are unholy inventions.

The soft rasp of curtains sounds behind you. You don't move. You can't be seen from the door, and it's likely just a young couple, seeking somewhere private for a brief, lurid encounter. No reason to bother yourself; all the same, you tense.

Heels click on the marble; someone hums, six notes, syncopated; you take a lungful of their vanilla perfume; then, she steps just into your view, leaning elegantly against the balcony like a starlet in a moving picture. Her hair is whitish gold, twisted up and piled under a black ornament in layer upon layer of fat curls; she wears a vivid magenta dress, falling - scandalously - to her mid-calf; her lips, painted dark red, twist into a smug, contented smile. The breeze gently tosses stray pieces of her hair. Another drop of sweat traces a path down your neck.

She notices you, although you can't say how. Her head tilts just to the side, and she looks at you - you're hidden to the right of the door, in shadow, but she finds your eyes anyway. 

"Are you here on business or pleasure?" Her voice falls on your ears like clean silk bedsheets on a naked body. You do not blink.

"Business."

"Oh. Strictly?"

"Very strictly." She's moving closer. You resolve not to move, even if she comes uncomfortably close.

"I'm here on both," she informs you. 

"Lucky you."

"Quite." She seats herself on the railing next to your bench. When she crosses her legs, you can see the lower corner of a red tattoo on her left thigh. She covers it with her hand, casually, but you it sets your mind racing all the same. 

"I met your friend."

"Jake?" You try and fail to suppress the alarm in your voice. 

"Mmhm. He's a nice guy." 

"He really is."

"Nice wings, too," she remarks coolly, and you drop your champagne. 

The glass shatters on the floor, and you hike your naked feet up. She winces and leans down to pick up the larger pieces, brushing the smaller shards off the edge of the balcony. Champagne puddles and twists across the floor in winding rivers of alcohol. 

"You -" You can't bring yourself to be bothered about the glass, as much as she seems to concern herself with it. "What did you -"

"Careful - don't put your feet down, hon, you'll cut yourself."

"What did you say about Jake?"

She doesn't look up from her task. "I said he had nice wings. Didn't think you'd be so surprised - sorry, I guess I could have been better on the delivery." She offers an apologetic grin. You don't return it; your heart is still drumming on your ribcage.

"I daresay you could've!"

"That's the worst of it," she decides, pouring her handful of glass on the railing beside her. "Shit, what a waste of good champagne."

"Language!"

"Sorry. It was, though, y'know?"

"I don't know who you are - but if you think you can waltz in here and denounce Jake and I -"

"Oh, you too? Nice. I mean, I guessed - you've got that kind of aura, you know? - but I thought I'd confirm. I've heard you guys take human companions, so I wasn't sure."

"'You guys'?"

"I mean angels," she clarifies. "Although I figured that was implied."

You stand up, ignoring the few bits of glass still littering the ground, and take three quick steps away from her. You can feel your pulse in your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," she chirps. "Angels! Big feathery wings. Servants of the Lord. Heralds of the Blessed. Citizens of the Kingdom of -"

"I know! I know what you  _mean._ I don't know why you would think I - or - or Jake! Jake is just -"

"I saw them, girl. Chill! I'm not gonna, like,  _tell_ on you." Her brows knit, her grin falls. "Or anything. What do you think I'm gonna do?"

"I'm going to kill Jake," you decide, pinching your nose. "I'm going to take one of his own damnable guns and kill him. Kill him!"

"That's not very Godly of you," she objects.

"I'm not feeling particularly Godly. And Jake - apparently - is just waltzing around,  _flaunting_ his bloody feathers -"

"Oh, it wasn't like that," she interrupts. "I asked him to show me."

You whirl on her. "And he  _did?"_

"Yeah. It took, like, a hella strong glamour, though. You know how much energy it takes to pull the wool over your Godly-ass eyes?"

You relax an ounce. "You're not human, I take it," you say, folding your hands and attempting to be diplomatic about this.

"Do I look human to you?"

"You don't look like anything at all, particularly," you say neutrally. 

"You're a spoilsport. I'm a lesser daemon. Not that you didn't know that." She winks. It's lascivious. You ignore it.

You breathe, relieved. "Lesser daemon," you say. "That's it?"

She scowls. " _You_ know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?" 

"Sorry? I don't know why you'd be offended. A lesser daemon is much better than the alternatives."

"What? Do you think a _demon_ is going to hang around here?" She rolls her eyes. "I didn't even know you guys would be coming! I'm just here for the music."

"Free souls don't hurt, either," you remark coldly.

"Do you know anything about daemons? We don't eat souls. Or, like, steal them? I don't know. I don't fuck with people. I just -" - she waves her fingers in erratic patterns in midair - "savor 'em."

"Savor."

She sighs. "Okay, right, you've got your succubi and your incubi, and that's, like, level  _one_ \- lust -"

"I know," you say quickly.

"Tightass. You're adorable. Anyway, there's that, and then your other sins, although they don't have special names - or maybe I forgot - I probably forgot - but yeah, you've got all seven of 'em, different types for every one. Most of us don't have the horsepower to pull a full soul, so we just eat, like. The flavoring."

"The flavoring on a soul."

"Sin," she clarifies, and grins.

"And what's yours?" You approach despite yourself, interested. "Sin, I mean."

"Gluttony."

" _Gluttony_?"

"What?" She frowns again. "What've you got against gluttony?"

"Putting aside what I, personally, as an Angel of God, have against  _a Deadly Sin -"_

"Obviously."

"It doesn't seem very 'you.' If you don't mind me saying so."

"Yeah, well, we pick when we're young and stupid," she says sullenly, "so it's not gonna always be in character."

"You _pick_?"

She rolls her eyes, flings up one hand in exasperation. "The mechanics of Hell are complicated! And boring! And totally not something I want to talk about."

"All right," you say, although you want to press her for more information. "What do you want to talk about, then?"

"An introduction would be nice. For a start."

"Names are dangerous things."

"Well, shit, lady - uh, person? Angel - I wasn't looking for your Godly name, or whatever. What d'you go by on these dirty mortal streets?"

"Jane," you say, at length. "Crocker."

"Lovely name. I'm Roxy," she adds.

"Roxy. A pleasure."

"Wish it was," she says, and sticks her tongue out between her teeth.

"Wish I could say," you retort, and make to leave the balcony. "I need to find Jake. And take away his glass, preferably, or, failing that, escort him out altogether."

"Don't be a killjoy," she implores. "Stay. Talk! I'm great company."

You scrutinize her. "You're an agent of Hell."

"They're not mutually exclusive. And I'm more like a part-time intern of Hell than an agent."

"I'm on duty."

"What? To save these innocent young souls from having a good time?" She rolls her eyes. "They're just dancing. Like, a few of them are doing incubi's work, but I seriously doubt that's important to you."

"I was assigned to South Carolina in protection of the owner of this house," you say stiffly. "He is - old, and - his soul - is in dire need of salvation-"

"Jane.  _Janey._ Jan-Jan. He's eighty! The worst he can do is eye up a couple of his guests. He's not going to damn his eternal soul in the time it'll take you to have a conversation with me." She picks up a shard of glass and studies it.

"I have a job!"

"So do I. But I get to take an hour off. It's only humane. Like, Jesus. If the old man is making you work around the clock, join a goddamn union, I'm serious." She grins lazily.

"Jake will be missing me," you hedge.

"Oh, he's flirting with my partner. Won't be going anywhere soon."

"Your partner?"

"Don't worry about it. He's not into angels."

"Reassuring."

"I know! So seriously." She pats her lap. "C'mon. Let's talk. Angel to daemon. This is, like, historic and shit. I'm a goddamn minion of the Devil. You should be frothing at the chance to talk with me!"   

"All right," you say cautiously. You lean against the rail beside her; she appears delighted by your choice. You remain guarded, but concede that her smile, when offered without any sexual undercurrent, is quite pretty.

"So," you say. "Gluttony."

"Oh, my God. Not this again."

"I'm curious!"

"You're boooooooooring," she drawls. "But fine. Shoot."

"What does it mean?" You make a vague gesture at the party behind you. "Is it food? Do you feed on people being full? Or drunk? Does it involve sex?"

"That was, like, five different questions."

"Go through them one by one, then," you insist, folding your arms.

"Fine." She lifts a manicured hand and ticks off the points on her fingers. "Uh, Gluttony is - well, first off, you've gotta keep it separate from little-g gluttony, because they're different things. Lil-G gluttons are all about food, which is part of it, but it's not . . . most? I guess? Big-G Gluttony is about excess. Anything that ain't moderation, that's mine. So, sure, getting stuffed, yeah, but also drunk, or being - uh, being addicted to anything, generally."

"And you take advantage of people like that." You can feel your brows furrowing instinctively.

"No! Nah, that's not - I don't. Absolutely not. I'm not a piece of shit." She drops her hands. "I just - feed off it. I don't  _encourage_ people to do shit like that."

"But you profit off of their doing so."

"I survive off it," she snaps. Her hands spasm at her sides; you notice she talks with her hands, and that throughout your conversation she's never been still. "I'm not - you gotta do what you gotta do -"

"Fine. Fine. That's - Roxy, I don't mean to suggest that you're -"

"Of course you did!"

"Well, I'm sorry for it," you say quickly. "I'm sorry to suggest it. You seem like a nice person, anyway."

"Thanks." She folds her arms. She's clearly still miffed, but her face eases after your apology. "You're not bad, yourself."

"Thank you." You attempt to edge back onto the subject of her job without stepping on any toes. "So - feeding, then. What does it involve?"

"I'm starting to feel like you're only talking to me for information," she says lightly. You can't tell if she's joking or not. You don't know if she's right or not.

"I'm a naturally curious person."

"Angels aren't supposed to lie."

"I'm not lying," you counter, and she puts up her hands, shrugs.

"All right, fine. Feeding's easy. You just kind of -" She reaches out, puts a hand on your shoulder, holds it there for a moment, pulls it away. "Bada-bing, bada-boom. Quick as you please."

"Is it painful?" You absently brush at the swath of your dress she touched, pulling it off where it stuck to your skin. 

"Not at all. Not for them, not for me, not for anybody. It's harmless."

"A harmless daemon."

"It's not unheard of."

"No, because I just heard of it. But I don't know if I should believe you."

"Why not?" She frowns.

"Because you're a daemon? And you have quite a lot to gain from me thinking you're harmless, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Whatever." She crosses her legs and the full length of her tattoo is exposed: a seven-pointed star, encircled by a red ring. You try not to stare at it. You fail. 

A burst of chatter breaks through the music as the band takes a break, and you turn briefly to the door. When you look back, she's dangling her legs off the edge, shoes abandoned, feet kicking gently in midair.

"Don't do that," you order her, feeling anxiety crawl into your ribcage and settle there. "That's a bad idea."

" _You're_ a bad idea." 

"What does that even _mean?"_

She laughs loudly and clearly. It lacks malice, but you bristle all the same. "Forget about me. I'm just having my fun, is all."

"Fun at my expense," you sulk. She's playing with you, you suspect.

"No. I'm not laughing at you." She reaches out and seems to balk just before taking your hand, instead electing to give you a friendly pat on the shoulder. Again, her hand and your skin are separated by your dress, and again, you adjust your clothes carefully after she tugs them out of place. "Sorry if you thought I was."

"You're not like I thought daemons would be."

Her eyes widen. "Haven't you ever seen one before?"

"Well - I am - I'm very busy! I don't have time to go around consorting with -"

" _Consorting?_ Holy shit."

"This isn't a game, you know, and some angels are younger than others -"

"How young are you?" She squints and runs her eyes over your body, as if that's any indication of your real age. You repress a shiver at the interrogative look she gives you. 

"I was born in 1750," you stutter.

"Holy  _shit!"_

"I'm not _that_  young!"

"No. Yeah, sorry, I know. It's just - I've never met anyone born after 1700."

"Well," you say sullenly, "Jake wasn't born till 1780."

"Shit. I mean, congrats, babe, you've got a couple of milestones left. Your two-hundredth's coming up soon, right?" She grins, folds her legs and sits precariously on the edge. You tense.

"What about you?" You look her in the eye to distract yourself from her position. She has dark pink eyes. You blink and they're brown. "I expect you're older than two hundred."

"Born in 1509," she says. "My four hundredth was just three years ago. I threw a helluva party."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks!" Her smile appears again, beatific. She's easy to please, Roxy.

"You're very friendly for a daemon. Especially with someone like me."

"I'm friendly with everyone. Everyone deserves friendliness."

"Angels, too?"

"'Specially you guys. It probably sucks, being an angel."

"It's very fulfilling work, I'll have you know!"

"Sure. Sure. Whatever." She leans over the edge and your stomach twists. "How far d'you think that is?"

"I don't know. Eighty feet? A hundred?" When she continues inspecting the fall, you add, "Either way, it'd be deadly."

"Hmm. Probably." She shrugs. "Dirk jumped out of a third-story window once."

"And he lived?"

"Technically?" She doesn't sound sure at all, and it worries you. "Uh, he was sore for like, centuries, afterward, and he wrecked his fleshbody, but he didn't die. Pain in the ass, looking after him like that."

"I trust you're smart enough not to repeat his mistake."

She looks at you and grins.

"You'd think," she says, and then slips off the balcony. 

Your heart seizes and you dive off the edge after her. You cleave the air cleanly, speeding after her plummeting body - her arms are splayed wide, her skirt whipping madly at her legs, and her head thrown back in a dazed shriek of laughter. The ground races up closer, closer, and you're aware that there's not nearly enough room to catch her safely. So you seize her by the ankle and haul her up into your arms, her limbs flopping like a doll's in midair, and hold her to your body before your wings snap open, catching a sharp air current ten feet above the ground and almost spraining your back. You hold back a grunt of pain by biting your tongue.

Roxy clings to your neck and wraps her legs securely around your waist. Her laugh rings in your ears, brilliant and hysterical. "That's  _great!_ That's the greatest. Oh, I love you. That's  _fantastic."_

Your wings are eight feet long in total and reverberate the light around them like the air over burning pavement. You don't think anyone can see them - the night is well and dark, and nobody is sober enough to pay attention to the two women rotating slowly in midair - and if they did, they could chalk it up to the alcohol. At least, that's what you tell yourself. Realistically, you think this is enough to get you fired. The last time one of your siblings did something like this, they wrote the New Testament.

You snap your wings closed and drop the last ten feet, letting her fall ungracefully. She rolls to a halt but doesn't stop laughing, seemingly ignorant of your supreme unamusement. You fold your arms and wait.

When the last of her chuckles subside, she rolls over on the grass and smiles at you. "I didn't think you would, Janey."

"Yes, well. We're all full of surprises." She notices the ice in your tone and sits up. Her hair tumbles out of its pin and rolls down to her back, full of knots and leaves.

"What?"

"I'm not supposed to  _do_ that, Roxy!"

"So?" She cocks her head.

You're rendered speechless. "So? So - I could be fired!"

"You won't be fired for that! Jake showed 'em off like nobody's business. He wasn't concerned."

"So that's what this is about." You step back.

"What? What did I say?" She scrambles to her feet, reaching for you anxiously. "Sorry - did I say something? Is that a no-no? Is that, like, angel promiscuity?"

"You just wanted to see them. That's what all the - the talking, and the flirting - that's what that was for!" You're furious at yourself for being lured into it. Two hundred years, and you can't see through a simple -

"No! No, Janey - listen - that was genuinely, literally, _really_ not what happened."

" _What,_ then?"

"I like talking to you," she says soberly. "And I do stupid shit, sometimes. But that doesn't mean I was manipulating you, or anything."

"Oh, really."

"Yeah, really! You - you have to believe me."

You scowl. "You've wasted enough of my time." You turn on your heel and head inside, with every intention of leaving her behind. But she puts a hand on your shoulder, and you whirl around, immediately aware of her presence, far too close for comfort.

"Hey," she mumbles. "I'm sorry. Like, I didn't think. I never think! I'm an asshole." She smiles. It's a lopsided thing. "Can we be friends?" She offers her hand.

You hesitate. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because there's a conflict of interests."

"You're being a tightass again. What would you say if I wasn't, like - who I am?" She taps the place on her skirt under which the tattoo sits.

"I would say maybe."

"Then say maybe," she says. "I won't bug you anymore, but I'd like to be your friend. You're fun."

You look her hard in the eye. "I doubt you really think that."

"I do! You're a killjoy sometimes, but you're interesting. And you like talking to me."

"Hearsay."

"Nah, I know it. You like me. You liiiiiiiike me." She leans forward, slings an elbow over your shoulder. You pluck it off with two fingers and extreme precision. "Trust me, you'll be glad to have a girl like me in your corner."

"Doubtful." You sigh. "If you consider yourself my friend, feel free. But I'm not going to treat you any differently than I would any other daemon."

"I knew it." She darts forward and kisses your cheek, once, daringly. "I knew we'd be friends. We're too cool not to be friends."

"Nothing you say makes any kind of sense."

"I know. That's my brand." She claps her hands. "Well. I'm starving. I'm heading inside. What about you?"

You sigh, adjust your hair where it was mussed in your fall. "I have to find Jake."

"Leaving?" Her mouth puckers in disappointment.

"We have a job to do. And I have a brother to scold."

Her face lights up. "Brother?"

"Colloquially," you add quickly. "It's not - it's a way we talk about each other, in the Host. It doesn't mean anything."

"Fancy ass birds," she says fondly, and then bounds into the party, not sparing you another word. You follow her with your eyes for a while, tired, and then rub your eyes, ignoring the smears it makes in your makeup.

You're tempted to fly back up to the balcony, but instead you take the long way around, socializing your way through the party and climbing the stairs inside. Roxy has vanished without a trace, and even when you deliberately go looking for her, there's no evidence that she was ever even there, much less that she remains. For all you know, she was an extraordinarily sophisticated delusion. You debate whether or not you'd be happier if that was the case.

* * *

Jake looks suitably chastened when you throw a book at his head. He ducks it, of course, as you expected him to, but your message appears to have registered loud and clear. You yell at him anyway.

" _Any old daemon could stroll up and -"_

"She was a right nice lady, Jane! I don't think you're being entirely fair -"

"I'm glad the minion of Hell was a _nice lady_ , Jake, I'm really so terribly glad -" 

"I could've been smarter about it, but she didn't do anything!"

"That's not the  _point_ _!"_

"How'd you know about her?" He folds his arms, smiling like he's made some stunningly intellectual argument. You want to punch him, a little bit, but the urge is more than outweighed by the maternal urge to be glad that Roxy was the worst he ran afoul of.

You breathe a sigh and rub your temples. You're in the owner's library. Most of the party guests have left, and the owner is asleep - you knocked him out yourself, putting him to bed before his shindig could make any more trouble for you or your associates. "That's irrelevant."

"I daresay it's quite relevant."

"I talked to her when I was outside. She knew who I was because she'd seen you."

"That's odd. We don't even look alike, this decade." He gestures to himself - tall, bearded, with a pair of thick glasses and a stovepipe top hat - and to your current state, who you admit is shorter than most of your previous incarnations, but overall hasn't changed much since 1750.

"She was a daemon. She could tell." You sink into a deep chair and remember the laughing smile she offered while in freefall, carefree, wild, happy. It was fascinating and you wish you could forget it.

"Then I didn't do any damage," he points out, rightly, and you shrug.

"You've got to be careful, Jake."

You walk up to the window. Across the owner's extravagant lawns, the twinkle of the city blooms on the horizon. It must be nearly dawn, by your estimate. Undoubtedly she's slunk back into some city apartment building by now, having feasted on her sin of choice and made conversation with two angels. It was a successful night for daemons, apparently.

"I know," he says. "I'll be more careful, in the future."

You know he will. You imagine Roxy's laughter. _I should be more careful,_ you think, but you can't hold onto the thought for long; it slips away, like a star into a morning sky.  


	2. Chapter 2

The owner of the house dies. You were expecting it, but it doesn't hurt any less for that.

His soul floats up through the roof on a foggy Sunday morning about five years after the party, and that's the end of your assignment; you stick around long enough to settle things among the staff, and then leave.

You and Jake take dozens of assignments over the years. You need each other more for moral support than for strategic advantage. After a while, an angel's job becomes taxing. Jake keeps you sane.

Eventually, however, he gets sent away to purge the soul of some obscure king in southern Europe, and you're dispatched to a tiny town in northwest Ohio. Your mark is a middle-aged writer named Sassacre with suicidal ideations; it's below your pay grade, but nothing you haven't handled before. Artists are common marks.

You miss Jake; he writes you letters, pages and pages of anachronisms spilling over your bureau in emerald green text, but it's not the same as working beside him. Apparently, the king is an arrogant sod. You find yourself laughing at Jake's stories more and more often, and do your best to return the favor, but nothing interesting really happens in northwestern Ohio. Sassacre is an uninteresting man, at best, with a creative talent far exceeding his conversational aptitude. Your disguise as his housekeeper makes him disinclined to talk to you at all, which you admit in retrospect was poor planning on your behalf. You work very effectively and are only occasionally lonely.

You don't see Roxy for thirteen years after the party, which you find odd, given her insistence on being your friend, but is an outcome generally satisfies you. You don't doubt her to be a disruptive influence, and although a curious entity, certainly not a seemly point of inquiry for a Servant of the Lord. If once in a while you catch yourself staring after a tall woman with blonde hair, what of it? You pride yourself on being constantly on your guard.

* * *

  **JANUARY 3, 1925**

A letter from Jake comes in the mail around mid-afternoon, as do several handfuls of bills. You've forged a few thousand dollars to maintain Sassacre's _vie bohème_ , but it won't last forever, and he'll need to start publishing. 

You boil a pot of tea to bring up for him and prepare to broach the subject. Sassacre's kitchen is dingy and small, with hideous magenta wallpaper and appliances that haven't been updated since World War I. It's cozy, though, and you don't mind it; your line of work has put you in worse areas. The tea whistles and you pull off the cap; a cloud of smoke blossoms from the top of the pot, the clean, wet smell of Earl Grey permeating the room. You pour it into a green teapot and place it beside the plate of cakes on your tray. He's most amiable when well-fed.

You climb the stairs slowly. Sassacre's apartment is two stories and three rooms, but connecting only by a rickety flight of stairs that creak perilously when you plant your boot on them. You balance and walk steadily, making plenty of noise to announce your approach. There's no noise from the upstairs, which is unusual. At this time of day, sounds from typewriter should be deafening. 

The tray you set down in front of his bedroom and rap twice at the door. "Mr. Sassacre?" You straighten your apron consciously, rubbing at an ash stain near the hem. "Are you there?"

Nothing.

"I meant to talk with you about something."

Nothing.

"Are you awake? For goodness' sake. It's almost ten o'clock." It doesn't make sense. He's always up by now. You've known him to go entire days without sleeping. You grow anxious, and knock harder. "Say something, or I'm coming inside."

Nothing.

"All right! I warned you!" You rear back and kick the door open, only just refraining from flinging it off its hinges. You rush inside.

Roxy sits beside him on the bed, one hand pressed to his left shoulder blade, humming and admiring her fingernails - her dress, this time, is a pearly grey, and tailored expertly, the height of modern fashion. Her legs are crossed casually, as if she hadn't a care in the world. Sassacre himself is facedown on the comforter, unmoving, while the point of contact between her hand and his back glows with supernatural energy. She looks up, smiles at you, and just gets out "Hi, Janey," before you tear her off him and tackle her to the floor.

"What the  _fuck!"_ She twists under you, trying to break your hold, but you've got her wrists pinned down and one hand at her neck before she's registered you moving at all. " _Jane!"_

"You have  _three seconds_ to explain what the bloody hell you think you're doing here before I send you back to the Third Circle."

"Fine!" She blows a piece of hair from her face, glaring. "I was passing by."

"And you decided to feed on my mark?"

"Yeah, well, a girl's gotta eat somewhere. Look at him, he's fine."

"He doesn't look fine to me."

"Take a closer look, then!" You keep your elbow to her throat and risk a glance at Sassacre. He stirs and rolls over, snoring. 

You sit back on your haunches but keep her pinned down. "State your business," you order her. She squirms and tries to buck you off. She fails.

She huffs. "I'm here to visit my friend. Jesus."

"And you 'happened' to be in the area," you reiterate skeptically.

" _Yes!_ Or - look, I've been wandering, and I heard you were around. Rumor flies. I figured, hey, it's not like I can give you a ring on the telly or anything." She pushes at your arms, fruitlessly. "Let me up, will you?"

"No."

"C'mon!"

Sassacre snorts and then sits up, blinking blearily. His eyes settle on you and he frowns, as if sorting through the lingering fog of a pleasant dream. "Jane?"

"For God's  _sake,"_ you say, and flick your fingers in his direction. He topples back over onto the bed, fast asleep.

Roxy's eyes sparkle with interest. " _That's_  a neat trick."

"Yes, it comes in handy."

"Can you do it to me?" She falls limp under you. "Do it to me."

"I can't do it to you, Roxy," you sigh.

"Why not?"

"It only works on mortals."

"That's boring. Don't you have anything that'll do it for a daemon?"

You press her wrists down further into the floorboards. "It doesn't appear necessary, does it?"

Her grin is mesmerizing. "Damn. You got me."

"Quite." You release her and roll off her body, springing lightly to your feet. "Hurry off, Roxy. I won't hurt you if you leave." The statement is illogical, by all means. You're supposed to take down daemons as a matter of course. As a matter of principle. It's in your job description. To reject the opportunity is treason, if only the sort of a minor order. You ignore those concepts and convince yourself that it's a gesture of mercy, not an indication of your lack of resolve.  

"Well, I'm glad, but, like, I came here to see you. And talk, and shit."

"Talk to me?" You sound skeptical despite yourself. "What about?"

She rolls over and props her chin up on one hand. "Life, and shit. About Dozer over there. About Jake - where's Jake, by the way?"

You offer a hand, and she uses you as leverage to haul herself up. "He's on an assignment in Spain. We took a break."

"Ooh. Personal reasons?"

"Only business. He likes curmudgeons. I get tired of them." You open the door and gesture to it. "Can I get you anything before you go?"

"Your company, for a couple of hours, for a start. And maybe a good drink. I haven't decided." She leans on the doorframe. "He'll be asleep for another hour at least! Come out on the town with me. You won't regret it."

"I absolutely will not. I have a job. A very demanding one, at that. I don't have time to go gallivanting -"

"Gallivanting! I love you. But you're going to come anyway."

"You are ridiculous. I will not."

"A few hours. Two! Two hours. Just give me two hours. I didn't get to know you all that well, last time, and I had to dash before we could get acquainted. Friends know things about each other." She nudges your shoulder. "C'mon. Please?"

Her eyes - large and pink, again - plead with you. You give Sassacre a long, hard look.

"Don't mind that old fart. He'll be fine. Dude needs his sleep."

You worry your lip. "I'm really not supposed to." 

It sounds good. You haven't taken a day off in weeks. Even Jake took days off. You're wedded to your work, and thoroughly, at that - but Roxy is an odd person - and you've never been able to resist your own curiosity. It's your only flaw.

"Let me get my coat," you tell her resignedly, and she claps her hands ecstatically. 

"Fuck yeah! I mean, thanks. You'll be glad of it, I promise." She darts forward and kisses your cheek again - the same cheek she kissed before, thirteen years previously, and all of a sudden it seems to be only a few days past that you were chatting with her on a balcony. She hasn't changed an ounce. Her energy has, if anything, only grown.

You sigh. You're far too easily convinced. 

* * *

 She takes you on a walk down to the park. The aternoon fog has lifted, but the day is dreary as ever; Januaries in Ohio are rarely spectacular. You've seen spectacular winters, you tell her; your favorite was a winter morning in Russia in 1844, in a rural village, watching the sun rise over a cow pasture. She tells you in return of the way the sun looks when it refracts against Lake Superior in the evening, and one day when she laid on the banks and observed a full rotation of the sun and stars across the sky. Twenty-four hours, she told you, with nothing but the sun on her back and the sand in her hair and the people strolling past. Then she tells you of her adventures across Asia in the 1700s, of backpacking across India with nothing but a gown and three dollars to her name. She tells you when she almost starved on a vacation to the Dominican Republic during the colonial era, because gluttons were so far and few in between that she had to steal into the governor's home to find anyone half well-fed. She grows quiet when she tells you stories of her starvation. You realize that Roxy is only as well-fed as the people around her, and you wonder how much time she's spent in the houses of the ill-fed.

"So you don't eat," she says, arm-in-arm with you as you stroll past the town church. It amuses you, in an ironic sort of way, that in all the months you've been here you've never once set foot in that church. You doubt she has, either.

"I can. I do. I don't need to."

"So how do you, like, survive?"

You shrug. "The Host is self-supplied."

"Like, every trip back home, you're stocked up for another decade away?"

"Where do you think 'home' is?"

"Heaven? I figured. Because my kind comes from the Big Downunder. I figured yours was the, uh, opposite."

"I've only been to Heaven once."

She gives you a sidelong glance. "Really."

You shrug. "It's not all that."

She snickers. "It's not all that. Heaven?"

"A lot of gold towers, shiny buildings, et cetera. But I don't think it's anything to write home about." You pause, admire the church steeple. "Humans build far more marvelous things. In my opinion."

"Well, hell yeah. St. Petersburg? Fancier than Hell and twice as pretty. It's a fuckin'  _ball_ of a city, Jane, you have to go sometime."

"I've been to St. Petersburg," you inform her. "I almost froze to death."

"You _can't_ freeze to death. Seriously, shut up." She pokes your shoulder. Your smile is subdued but unavoidable.

"You're so pretty when you smile," she exclaims. "Why don't you?"

Your face immediately settles into its former apathetic stare. "I don't know what you're talking about. I smile very often."

"Oh my God, that's the worst lie I've ever heard. Shape up, you're a servant of the goddamn Lord." She smirks and you feel the corner of one lip quirk up. "There. There it is! You're adorable."

"Lies and hearsay," you tell her. She laughs again. You've made her laugh several times, intentionally and unintentionally so; it never ceases to be a musical, loud noise that draws attention to you both, which you should balk at, but can't bring yourself to regret. She's charming, you guess, in a brash sort of way. And not a bad conversationalist, either, in all honesty.

More couples are emerging on the street. You recognize a few of them, but tug your hat lower on your head, so as to prevent being recognized. You want to avoid awkward questions about your companion. You could probably explain her away as an old schoolmate of yours, or a cousin, but - you'd rather not lie any more than you absolutely must. People in small towns are so rarely trustful.

You wander into the park, where there are fewer people and more protective foliage. The park is only half a square mile, but it's got a pond and a handful of trails winding through snatches of trees. The pathways are paved with brick, which is easier for Roxy's heels. You feel safer talking to her with fewer people within earshot.  

"How long have you been here?" She waves a hand airily at the sky, which you take to indicate the town itself.

"A few months. Since last November." 

"And your dude. He's damned?"

You bite the inside of your cheek thoughtfully. "No. I'm to make sure he gets well again, and then leave him be." When she continues to appear confused, you add, "I'm not to _save_ his soul, so much as I'm to give him more time to work on it, so to speak."

"Whereas with the guy at the party -"

"He was going to die." You fold your hands. It's a short statement, one you punctuate with silence. Doomed marks are never easy. "I was there to ensure his soul's security in his remaining years. He was on the edge of damnation; I pulled him back. With Jake's help."

"Damn." She whistles. "You do good work, Janey."

Your cheeks heat. "Thank you."

"No, I mean it. Like, goddamn. You stick around. I haven't hung anywhere for more than six months at a time. But you were with that guy for  _years,_ right?"

"It was just a job."

"Hard job," she points out, and you have to agree.

You sit down on a bench beside the water and watch fish squirm across the pond. The park is almost empty, and it's peaceful. The silence stretches out, and she puts her head on your shoulder, hesitantly. Your neck heats.

"So," you announce, to break the silence. "That's what I do. What about you?"

"What about me?" She's subdued, perhaps quieter in the daytime than in the night, and you poke her shoulder to elicit some kind of response. "I've told you everything there is to know."

"That's not even remotely true. I hardly know a thing about you."

She stretches. The bones in her shoulders crackle in a way that you think a human's probably wouldn't. "Well, shoot, Feathers."

You purse your lips and ignore the jab. "Why do you travel? It'd make more sense to stay in one place, wouldn't it?"

"Nah." She shrugs, shaking out the tension from her stretch. "I like moving. It's fun to see new shit."

"You don't ever want to stay somewhere?" She fidgets with one of her bracelets. "Put down roots."

"Don't you?" Her steady gaze catches you by surprise. Her eyes shift from pink to brown quickly, kaleidoscopic fragments folding around each other in her irises. "Staying put's boring, Janey."

"My name is Jane."

"I know."

You sigh and let her put her head back on your shoulder. She snuggles into your side as if you're age-old friends, and not, as you are, a pair of hardly acquainted strangers.

"Are you staying long?"

"Here?" Her eyes move over the terrain before you. There's something calculating in them. "Dunno. I'm out of money, so I can't hang around here long."

"You don't strike me as the working type." Resisting the urge to clap a hand over your own mouth to prevent further impoliteness, you continue, "Where are you staying?"

"Wherever I can." She shifts uncomfortably at the question. "Uh, last night I slept in the church. Night before that I was hitching a ride on the train, so I slept in a boxcar, there."

You detach yourself from her hold and turn to face her, frowning. "You sleep in the church?"

"Um." She drums her fingers on one knee. "Yeah? Like, surprise! Doesn't do anything against daemons. Holy water doesn't work, either. Uh."

"That's not what I was - you shouldn't have to sleep on a pew." You bite the tip of your tongue, considering. "I - if you're going to stay here, you should sleep somewhere nice."

"Daemons have it rough, babe. It's fine, I'm used to it."

"It's _not_ fine. It's inhumane, Roxy!"

"It's capitalism."

"I - irrelevant. I can find somewhere for you to sleep. For the night. If you wish." You stand up. "You - if I'd known you were homeless -"

"It's not that big of a deal."

"Yes, it - we're friends, right? You said so." You knit your fingers to keep them from fidgeting. "So, ah, therefore - friends do things for each other. So you'll sleep in my house, tonight. I won't allow otherwise."

She. "Babe, it's really not ne-"

"Shut up," you insist. "And - and just come home with me."

" _Phrasing_ , lovely." She smirks, rolls her eyes, lets you pull her to her feet. She doesn't argue, though, and you feel a rich sort of satisfaction roll through your chest.

* * *

 It's evening by the time you get back to the apartment, and a light in the upstairs window tells you that Sassacre has risen from his involuntary nap. Roxy's switched her eyes back to brown, to avoid arousing suspicion, and you hustle her through the front door as quietly as possible. You hope fervently that he's too absorbed in his writing to notice the swing of the door - but he's standing at the top of the staircase when you walk inside, staring at the tea tray outside his door in bemusement.

He turns to greet you as you close the door. "Jane," he calls. "Who's that you've got with you?"

"Hi, sugar," Roxy calls, fluttering her fingers. You swat her shoulder, miffed.

"A friend," you tell him, trying to quell the tremor in your voice. "She's staying with me - doesn't have a place to go, poor thing, she'll spend the night on my sofa. If that's all right?"

"Sure." He scratches his head. "Say, Jane, I slept for a while, didn't I?"

Roxy snorts. You swat her again. 

"Not too long, I don't think. Good for you to get some rest, anyway, isn't it?"

"S'pose." Sticking his hands in his pockets, he wanders back into his room, whistling a six-note tune. 

Roxy giggles, pressing into your shoulder, while you guide her into your room. "What a braniac."

"Hush. He's got a good head on his shoulders. I did a number on him this morning."

"I'm sure, but - I mean, I guess having an angel under your roof fries anybody's brain, but good  _God,_ Janey. He better be the next Shakespeare."

"Hush," you insist, giving her arm a third and final swat, and then let her into your room.

It's a boxy little thing, adjacent to the kitchen and located right above the boiler room, which keeps it warm at night and suffocating during the day. Your bed is pushed into one corner, and there's a sofa just under the window, which overlooks a frost-dusted courtyard; Sassacre's piano, dusty from disuse, sits in the corner. Roxy takes a running leap onto the sofa, skirts flying, and rolls onto it, looking comfortable as ever.

"Nice place."

"You've already seen it," you say flatly, and go into the kitchen to make dinner.

She yells at you from the other room. "Not your  _bedroom,_ though!"

You roll your eyes. "Details, details."

When you return with a mug of tea to warm up with, Roxy is curled up in the corner of the sofa like a cat, her arms tucked under her protectively and her knees drawn up to your chest. It's the recognizable hunch of someone used to sleeping in places unfit for sleeping, and almost hurts to look at. 

You sit next to her on the sofa, your leg brushing hers, and hand her the mug. "Drink something warm."

"You're mothering me," she complains, but reaches for the mug anyway. 

"You need mothering." You fold your legs and lean back on the sofa, easing the ache in your feet. 

"I'm an agent of Hell."

"As I recall, you're more of a part-time intern than an agent." It takes effort to restrain your smirk.

_"I'm older than you are."_

"Only by a few centuries," you say, and take the mug from her hands to sip it. "Ah, there's nothing in the world better than Earl Grey, Roxy, there really isn't."

"Don't change the subject."

She burrows further into the sofa, as if she wanted to submerge herself in it. "You really do have a nice place," she says, but the statement is interrupted by a jaw-splitting yawn.

Upon checking the clock, you find it's only seven-thirty, but you decide it's best to let her sleep. "Rest," you order her. "You can talk to me in the morning."

"I don't want to talk to you in the morning. I want to talk to you now."

"You sound like a petulant child."

"You sound like a boring old grandmother."

You narrow your eyes at her. "Roxy."

"What are you gonna do, mind-trick me into it?" She taunts you, but she looks excited anyway. 

"I told you that I can't."

"I told you that I'd like to see you try."

"No, you didn't."

"Well, I'm telling you now. Try me."

You press your lips together and exhale through your nose. "All right," you concede. "Close your eyes."

" _Hell_ yeah." She flips onto her back and closes her eyes, wiggling into a comfortable position. "Mind-trick me, baby."

"I don't understand your fascination with being manipulated. It's quite unreasonable."

"It's a thrill," she says. She yawns again. "S' a - an experience, y'know, haven't had one like that before."

"So you're an experience junkie," you say, skeptically. 

She's slurring her words with exhaustion. 

"How long has it been since you've slept well?"

"Mmm. Dunno."

"Too long."

"Prolly."

You haven't done a thing to her. She's hardly awake, at this point, and you reach over to rub her shoulder. 

"G'night, Roxy."

"Mmmmrgh."

* * *

You're awoken at three in the morning by a clumsy set of chords drifting from the piano.

You push back your hair and fumble for your glasses. You accidentally knock them onto the floor and dive for them, your pulse racing in alarm, but after taking a moment to remind yourself of where you are and who you're with, you calm yourself.

Roxy sits at the piano, tapping intuitively at a few keys. It's the same six-note tune she'd been humming at the party, humming this morning, humming every time you knew her. She doesn't notice you're awake until you stand up and pad out of bed, the white lace of your nightgown dragging against the floor. She's shed her jacket and sits in her sleeveless dress, shimmering purple in the candlelight, her face half-illuminated yellow and half cast in shadow. She hardly looks real; but then, nothing does, at three in the morning.

When she sees you approaching, she takes her hands off the keys and folds them in her lap. "Hi," she says simply. 

"I didn't know you played."

"I picked it up back when Steinway was alive," she says absently. "I don't, like, do it much."

"Not much time to practice on the run, I take it."

"No."

You sit next to her, smoothing your skirt. She watches your hands move over your knees, her eyes hooded. 

"Do you play?"

You nod. "It's the only instrument I can."

"Play something for me."

"It's too early. And I don't have any music."

"Please?" It's a quiet, polite request, and one that you don't understand but acquiesce to anyway. You find that the lamplight makes her look too fetching to refuse.

"Scooch over."

She inches down the bench until she sits at the very bottom of the keyboard, and you let your fingers fall somewhere around a high-B. You haven't played since you last saw Jake; he would accompany you on the cello. Your fondest memory is of the pair of you playing together, cooped up in a basement in Vienna, making music for a group of refugees while they danced. You played a minuet. Chopin. You can't remember the tune but you can remember the energy of the room, the joy, the face of one girl who you taught a five-finger arpeggio. You have a lot of memories like that.

The opening notes drift out of the right hand. Little trills that you roll off the keys easily. The left hand busies itself rocking up and down broken chords in the bass clef, a rising, sinking moan to accompany the acrobatic twists of the melody. The right flickers over black and white notes with the precision of a dancer on a tightrope. Your fingers move without conscious command. Your thoughts are abstract and distant, quiet echo of the melody and murmured suggestions as to corrections in fingering and position.

It's a six minute song. After it's done, you don't stop, but perform a knuckle-twisting key change and lay into a few hard chords. A rapid series of scales, your hands jumping over one another to reach the right keys, and then separate but synchronous melodies. Roxy has nestled up against your side, careful not to jostle your arm, and a hand has snuck around your waist when you weren't paying attention. A newfound awareness of your position almost draws an error from you, but you correct your fingering in time to compensate for the distraction. You are careful thereafter not to think too hard about it, among other things.

"Beethoven?"

"I thought I'd best start with the classics."

"Mmm." She rubs your hip. "I met him, you know."

"Beethoven."

"Yeah. He's a radical dude. Had like, two billion kids. They were great, though. Musical geniuses."

"Did you play with them?"

"Nah. Couldn't risk being shown up by a nine-year-old." She falls quiet when you transition into a particularly difficult part of the piece, and pipes up again when you're finished. "Damn, where'd you learn to play?"

"A friend of mine taught me. He was quite skilled."

"Another angel?"

"No." You strike one note with a pinch too much aggression. "Human."

"Ah. That sucks." She sucks on her cheek. "I have a bunch of human friends. Had. Used to have."

"What happened to them?"

"They got caught up in shit," she says. "War. Politics. Disease. Work of the Devil. Et cetera, et cetera." Her smile is grim. "Shit happens."

"Shit happens," you agree, quietly, and finish with an emphatic major chord.

The subsequent silence is louder than any sound the piano could have made. You find yourself blushing, and you don't know why. Roxy's hand is still around your waist and you contemplate asking her to remove it; it's flustering.

Roxy whispers, "What are you thinking about?"

You whisper, "Dunno."

"Why are we whispering?"

"Don't know that, either."

"Do you ever feel," she says, still whispering, "like you don't want to save people any more?"

"No. Why would I ever feel that way?"

"Seems like a drag. You don't have time for anything else. All your life it's just - souls, souls, souls. Other people's problems. You've never wanted anything for yourself?"

"Angels are selfless," you tell her, mostly for her benefit, partially for your own.  

"I know you are. But, like. Haven't you ever thought about _not_  being, like, good?" 

"Never," you lie.

"Earthly attachments? You've never been tempted by those?"

You stand up and her hand falls from your waist. "I have friends," you say. "They're not earthly, but I have them. Jake, and - I've got a few others. In the Host." She looks at you with a melancholy shadow in her eyes - brown eyes - like a human. All too human. "And you," you say. "You're my friend."

"Do you think so?" She's gentle. It's unnerving.

"Of course you are." You search for something to say that won't sound desperate or juvenile. "I mean - you like me, don't you? And I don't think you're entirely terrible. You don't make any sense, but I mean, many don't. And you're nice."

"And a part-time intern of Hell," she remarks.

"We all have our little faults." 

She stands up and reaches for you; you let her embrace you, wrapping your arms around her back, holding her tightly. She's soft and round and feels pleasantly warm against your chest, and hugs tightly, like she hasn't had half enough hugs in her life and deserves far more than she's got.

While your face is pressed against her shoulder, you spot the edge of an orange tattoo sprouting from under her shirtsleeve, at the base of her neck. You decide not to ask about it, and instead trace it idly while you're embracing.

When she lets you go, she returns to her couch, curling up in the corner farthest from your bed. "We should sleep," she mumbles. "You've got a job in the morning. Saving people. Doing shit. Being a total blessing to society, generally."

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," she says, scrubbing at the corner of her eyes. "Uh, thanks. By the way. For letting me stay here. I can't even tell you how cool it is, holy shit."

"It's nothing."

"S'not." She curls up and closes her eyes. "I mean, it's weird. For an angel. But thanks." She tucks her arms in close to her chest. "Jane."

"Anytime," you say. You blow out the candle. You can tell she isn't asleep by the rhythm of her breath, but you do the kind thing and pretend you don't notice. 

* * *

 In the morning, Roxy is gone. You spent a disarmed half-hour looking for her, rooting through the apartment - attic, bathrooms, kitchen, even the crawl space below the boiler room - but you concede after a thorough search that she had likely left before you woke up.

Sassacre comes to find you in the kitchen, concerned by your absence.

"You all right, Jane?" He asks it offhandedly, with the brusqueness that indicates a chiefly perfunctory concern.

"Fine," you say. You ready a pot of tea for him. Perhaps you can make him forget last night. You dislike using mind tricks, but you've already abused them once in the past twenty-four hours.

"Is your friend still here?"

"No," you say shortly. "She left."

"Why?"

"Had to catch a train." You force a broad smile. "Forget about her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Third Circle of Hell, in Dante's Inferno, is the circle of the gluttonous. "The Host" refers to the Heavenly Host, or a collective term for a group of angels. 
> 
> The pieces Jane plays are Chopin's Op. 9, No. 1 in B flat minor ("Larghetto"), and Beethoven's Piano Sonata N. 21 in C major Op. 53 ("Waldstein"), in case you wanted to listen to them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and injury. If you don't want to read that, skip from "Then it moves" to "You're well." Alternatively, skip down to the section cut from wherever you feel uncomfortable; past that, it's safe.

You don't forget about her. Your charge does, and the town does, and Jake seems to, for a while, but you don't and probably can't. You'll find yourself trying to sleep at half past midnight and staring at the piano in the corner of room. You'll stop and stare at the park bench you shared with her. You'll pause in the middle of mindless tasks and remember something she said, some funny remark she made, and then you'll catch yourself doing it and throw yourself back into your job with vigor. Distractions have never been a problem for you! They  _aren't_ a problem for you. 

Sassacre manages to sell one book, and then two, and you leave him with a kind parting word and careful instructions for self care. It takes you longer than you'd expected - a total of five years, from start to finish - but in the vast scale of things, it's a relatively brief assignment. You meet up with Jake again in Morocco and spend a handful of years chasing a nomadic soul over the Atlas Mountains, then pour another decade into saving them. Immediately thereafter you're plunged into an assignment on the coast of Brazil, caring for a melancholy old woman with rheumatism. You liked her, even if it bored Jake to tears. Then a few short tenures, dotted across Latin America, and a brief jaunt to Australia. You meet hundreds of people over the course of those years, even a few that remind you of her, and you watch hundreds of hundreds of people be born fall in love and have children and die and you can't stop thinking about her, which you hate, because if there's anybody who should be able to forget something it's an immortal being. You can't remember a single day from the eighteenth century and yet somehow you can remember the color of her hair in candlelight. You suspect it's some kind of perverse affliction. 

* * *

**MAY 11, 1948**

Scotland drowns you for nine months of the year and freezes you the other three. It's a beautiful country, of course, but after seven months there you've forgotten what it's like to be warm outdoors, and rolling emerald hills lose some of their charm after you've hiked them all. The fortunate thing about it, of course, is that there are few population centers large enough to spread word of supernatural happenstance, and you're an angel backpacking across the country with your partner. The unfortunate thing about it, of course, is that there are few population centers large enough to spread word of supernatural happenstance, and you're hunting a demon.

May catches you in Edinburgh, a sprawling stone city that looks like the lovechild of New York and the Vatican. Spires and clocktowers sprout from the unique skyline alongside ancient marbled buildings, crowned rooftops, gargoyle statues perched and leering over streets full of glowing electric lights. You're still getting used to telephone booths dotting street corners, readily available connection to the rest of the world. Jake took to the city immediately. He's never been, and still marvels at every new sculpture like a man born yesterday. It's a charming kind of naïveté. You wonder how long it took you to lose that.

The demon you're tracking has kept you and Jake occupied for six years, a hunt starting in the eastern Sahara and taking you over Europe. As beautiful as the chase is, you start to long for the constancy of a stationary mark. You guess it's sort of exciting, every day being an exercise in haste, but you can't imagine doing it for the rest of your life. There are some angels who love demon hunting. You're not one of them. Jake, on the other hand, seems to be; he smiles over half the time, nowadays, thrilling in the chase. He's taken to carrying pistols instead of his angel blade, a habit he picked up in Spain during the thirties and hasn't dropped since. 

"Technology's improving, Jane," he reminds you. "Gotta keep up with the times."

"The last I checked, a pitchfork to the gut never failed."

This decade, Jake's a tall, broad man, with skin like umber and glittering green eyes that can't see four feet ahead of his nose without thick, nerdish square glasses that he's broken so many times they're more duct tape and paint than original frame. He dresses horrifically, what with his cargo shorts and polo shirts and odd running shoes, but you don't have the heart to tell him off for it, given that it's remarkably endearing to watch a man turning 168 this year dress like he's only known about human fashion for the past week and hasn't yet hit his learning curve.

"There's nothing wrong with a pitchfork," he allows, "but at a certain point, you've got to admit the superiority of something that'll do twice the damage with three times the range."

"Except that it's expensive, and difficult to load and clean, and you've got to buy around six different parts to make it work correctly."

"Don't be that way, you've got to get one, one of these days. Say, you could even borrow one of mine, long as you give it back - how's that?"

"I'll buy a gun the day I go to Hell, Jake."

He sighs, then, and lets you have your anachronisms. In return, you let him have his newfangled obsessions without complaining too much. Even if you do find them superfluous.

* * *

Your mission ends in a library.

Jake is hanging out on the roof, and from time to time will jump down to chat with you through the window. As the light outside grew dimmer, he did it less frequently, having less security in his footing and withheld from flying by the constraints of publicity. You've got a good suspicion that you won't be seeing him again till morning, which is disappointing, given that he was pretty much the only one keeping you awake.

The librarian is gone, even, and aren't they supposed to be here all hours that the library's open? To be fair, the library isn't even technically  _open_ past five o'clock; you and Jake broke in through the back. You're almost certain the demon is here, though. There's a saying about omelets and eggs, and at any rate, given the time you've put into this assignment, you would be willing to drop a shopping cart full of eggs from the Empire State Building to get it over with.  

"Jake, darling," you murmur, mostly to yourself, "if we finish this tonight, I'm taking an eight-decade vacation."

It's an empty threat. You couldn't take a one-decade vacation. You couldn't take an eight  _day_  vacation. You hardly know the meaning of the word.

You hear footsteps in one of the bookcases, and you stand up, draw your pitchfork. It's a tall, gold-plated thing, with spires sharp enough to shatter diamond. You think you look kind of impressive with it, all told, but given that you're wearing a day-old blue pantsuit with a wrinkled collar and Jake's cologne - you ran out of perfume three weeks ago - you doubt you make an angelic picture.

"Hello?" You lower the tip of the pitchfork, just slightly, and step into the aisle for greater maneuverability. The footsteps sound again, moving closer. You tense and ready yourself for a fight. 

"I heard you," you add. "Come out, now, or I'll come get you myself." At closer examination, the footsteps are sharp, the clicks of heels on stone instead of a leather scrape. Your heart kicks into high gear and you walk faster,  _so damn ready_ for the whole adventure to be over, so ready to end the beast's life once and for all and get back to a world of stationary assignments and sure means and hot breakfasts - 

You round the corner and the excitement drops clean out of your stomach, and a worming mass of confusion and anticipation and unexpected happiness blossoms in your ribcage, and you almost drop your pitchfork and instead lean against one of the bookcases, incapable of doing anything more than looking on and laughing a little bit in wonder -

Because Roxy stands there, reaching for a book on a higher shelf, dressed head to foot like a little duchess - a short button-down dress with puffed sleeves, in her signature color, and a pair of tall black heels, white gloves, and her curls wound up neatly behind her neck. A tasteful string of pearls looped over a tightly pressed collar. You wonder how she looks so  _good_ when you look like something the cat dragged in, a wrinkled sweatervest over men's slacks - but you don't bother over that for long, because while you're slumped against the bookcase she turns and looks at you and gives a muffled little gasp, her voice still slick like silk, her eyes flashing pink before they calm back into a natural brown.

"Jane," she says. You wonder how you ought to feel, seeing someone you've spent the past twenty-three years thinking about, and decide that line of thought won't get you anywhere.

"Where the  _hell_ did you go?" You fold your arms, will your pitchfork away. It pops out of existence with a sound like frying oil and Roxy stares, bewildered, at the place it once was. "I haven't seen you for decades."

"I, uh. I was traveling?"

"Without saying goodbye." You purse your lips. "Friends drop a note to each other before leaving, you know, Roxy."

"Dunno what to say, Janey," she offers, palms out. Her smile is nervous and placating. "S' just my way, y'know?"

"Your 'way'?"

"Well, I mean, like, yeah."

You tap your foot and fold your arms. You hope that you manage to communicate the supreme degree of your unimpressment. 

"Yeah," she says, scratching the back of her neck, "uh, bad on me, 'kay?"

"I think it's fair to say that yes, this is a 'bad on you.'" You frown at her. "Do you even know how mad that drove me? Running out in the middle of the night. If you had an ounce of decency you'd at least have stayed for breakfast."

She snorts a half-laugh. "Pfft. Look at us, talkin' like I - uh - like I stole out after some kinda saucy - uh." When she gets a good look at your face, she immediately drops the sentence. "Anyway."

You sigh, rub your temples. "I don't - as much as the serendipity of your presence fascinates me, dear, I really can't have you here at the moment."

"What? Why?" Her brows crease and she steps forward, as if to interrogate you by proximity. 

"I'm on a bit of a demon hunt. A rather long and important one, and one that I'd rather you not be interfering with the culmination of, if you don't mind terribly."

"Daemon hunt?" Her face shuts down, wiping amusement and awkward apology from her features like water over chalk. "Do you mean - me?"

"No. No, of course not, you're not half enough a threat to merit a two-angel mission, don't fret yourself over it." You resist the urge to pat her shoulder in comfort and rebuke yourself for seeking to soothe her, even after what she pulled in Ohio. "D-E demon, an upperclassman of Hell. Myriad counts of murder, three counts of arson, nine of possession, and six of corruption. A heavenly warrant for their arrest." You snap your fingers and a scroll unrolls itself before you, glowing gold and peppered with black ink. Roxy scrutinizes it, shielding her eyes from the light. It would blind a mortal, so you can understand her difficulty.

"Yuck," she announces.

"Quite."

"I know this one." She taps a line of tiny print at the bottom of the scroll. "Uh, Azazel. What a bum. Used to roll with an old friend of its, man, where  _they_ ever fucked up." 

"You  _know_ it?" You hold the scroll closer for her observation. "What can you tell me?"

"Probably nothing you don't know." Her smile is apologetic. "It's a nasty customer. Some kinda weird goat demon, according to the word on the street. Never had a bad fight in its life, or, at least, never one that got around. It's a good thing you got backup. Granted, I've never seen an angel fight anybody in real life, so who knows? Maybe you'll take out this guy like a trash bag on garbage night." She cocks her head curiously, peeks around you at the sea of oak tables and glowing electric lamps. "Who's backup, by the by? Don't suppose it's Michael, or anybody else packing real heat."

"Michael doesn't do field assignments any more."

"Aw, shucks. Here I was getting excited. You seen the paintings of that one? Talk about an ass that doesn't quit." 

"That's sacrilegious."

"Doll, I've got skirts more sinful than that. Tell it to my pastor." She punches your shoulder, though, like you're a pair of old schoolmates. Like you're falling into an old rut. Like you're friends. She always acts like you've known each other for years, and you suppose, in a way, that you two have, except that she didn't stick around for twenty of those years and she still hasn't told you why.

"Seriously, though. Who's Plan B?"

"Jake," you find yourself answering, and shove your questions away. There'll be time later. You'll hold her down by the goddamn wrists and sit on her until she tells you, if you have to; you'll  _make_ her give you answers, if she won't give them freely.

"Nice. Sweet kid, that one, even if he does act like he was born an hour ago."

"How would you know?" You can't help yourself. "You hardly stuck around to get acquainted." 

She gives you a narrow look from the corner of her eyes, pink again, and flashing. "Girl's gotta fly sometimes. Besides, I read people well."

"Do you?"

" _Hell_ yeah. For example, when I met you, I knew you had a stick up your ass but also was just itching for someone to pull it out."

You splutter. "That's absolutely indecent, Roxy, absolutely -"

"Indecent, indecent, okay, let's skip to the part where you admit I'm right and shut up about it, because it's only a joke, Janeroo."

"Janeroo," you mutter mutinously, considering summoning your pitchfork again, if only for theatric effect. "Janeroo - never in my life -"

"Anyway," she chirps, "you'd better call him, if you wanna get serious about this wise guy, because everybody knows demons are big dramatic shits, and they'll be out at midnight if they're ever out." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "Also, probably in the basement. Demons love basements."

"Is that a rule? Is a penchant for subterranean lairs a side effect of unthinkable Hellish power?"

She snickers. "Nah, correlation over causation, probably. But anyway, this asshole's probably a cliché. Never met a Class-A with half a brain. And I've met a coupla Class-A's."

"A couple of Class-A's," you repeat, attempting to mask the wonder in your voice - she doesn't need her ego inflated, assuredly - and try to wrap your mind around the concept of encountering the highest tier of demonic power as a matter of course, to the point where you could fling it around lightly in conversation. Instead, you focus on milking your informant for all she's worth. "So you know a thing or two about fighting them, I assume."

She sucks in a breath through her teeth and then kisses them, the long sucking sound punctuated by a little click of the tongue. "Erm. I guess? Look, uh, daemons and demons and damned aren't exactly rubbing elbows, or anything, down there, and on the off chance that we know each other, we're likelier on shit terms than not, but if - ah, Jesus, Crocker, how do I put this. The laws of Hell," she says, gesticulating wildly with her hands - she talks with her hands - "are governed primarily by self-interest."

"Right."

"So if it don't suit me, particularly, at any given moment, to go picking a fight with the most powerful son of a bitch Our Lady Lilith ever shat out - y'know, I _don't_. I mind my business. And it minds its own." She gestures at the arrest order, which you fold back into nothingness with a snap of your fingers. "We don't have those. Or, uh, any kind of order to keep. Every filthy minion of Satan for themself."

"You must've had some chance encounters, though. Your existence does not strike me as a pacifistic one."

"Course I have." She squares her shoulders. "I could kick any ass south of Purgatory, you bet your bottom dollar on it."

"I won't, given that I don't have a bottom dollar. Or any dollars, generally."

"Smartass."

"I don't have a clue what you mean," you say, loftily, having every clue what she means. "And you undoubtedly know more about it than I. Or Jake."

"Yeah, sure. What of it?"

"So," you say, bolstering your confidence. "Uh. It is my divine right, as an agent of the Lord, to commission lesser beings -"

"Cut the shit, Jane, what do you want?"

"Help me," you beg her, hating the desperate edge in your voice. You're tempted to go back and revise your statement, but instead you let it hang in the air between you, an unanswered solicitation. The words strike her in the chest and she blinks, owlish, her eyes bright as garnets and unreadable.

"I don't have much experience with hunting." You fiddle with your fingers. "I, ah, certainly don't have experience with exorcisms. And if you hadn't noticed, my official designation as a member of the Host is that of a healer, not a - warrior. I presume, of course, that your talents lie in a more violent field, that is, a field of combat, and if you could, uh, be persuaded to act temporarily in service of the Lord, then, subsequently, should you so choose, it would be within my jurisdiction to absolve you of any and all crimes against Heaven." This is a bad idea. This is, in fact, a terrible idea and you should not be entertaining or offering it; you hope she takes it anyway. 

She chews on her cheek and you want to fling yourself out a window. You don't.

At length, she says, "This isn't really a good mission for you, babe," and you nod, slightly.

"I am perfectly capable of combat."

"'Capable' ain't 'suited to,' Janey."

"Well, I was all they had available," you snap. "Will you help?"

"Obviously. You didn't need to do the absolving shit, I would've helped you if you'd just asked." She smirks and you feel faint. "Don't wanna be absolved, neither. On the streets, a criminal records' the only thing that'll get you anywhere. Brownie points from the Guy Upstairs won't do much when you're in front of two Class-B's with a grudge."

"All right, then, stay a criminal," you tell her, delicately. "Only you'll help, won't you?"

"God, I said I would, didn't I?" She tugs at your shoulder. "Call your boyfriend, we'll take a trip downstairs."

* * *

You tell Jake to meet you in the boiler room below the library, which he takes to mean 'scramble all over the roof and find himself trapped behind a dumpster while a bunch of mortals pass by,' so you start off with Roxy at your side, alone. She walks fast when she's got a purpose, a spring in her step and a glow in her eyes and a grin far too wide for someone speed-walking toward a violent encounter with an eldritch force. You find yourself watching her move, because wow, does she ever: like an animal, like a feral cat with her eyes on a mouse that won't see her until it's half past too late. It's a little bit beautiful.

You have to push back the sweeping tide of thoughts in the back of your head that are crying  _wrong, this is wrong, this is so very, very wrong._  It's a cardinal breach of law to be allied with a daemon - especially if there's no contract, you'd have to be deluded to ally with a daemon with no contract, you'd have to be deluded to ally with a daemon  _with_ a contract, who do you think you're fooling - but especially to fraternize with a daemon in the way that you have. It's one thing to talk to it; it's another to chat about your life with it, offer it a place to stay in your home, play  _Chopin_ for it, for God's sake, but it's a third thing entirely to trust it to have your back. You can't trust a daemon, that's the very first thing they tell you, your siblings, that they've always got a motive of their own and that whatever you do you can never keep any less than two eyes on it at all times. _It._ Not people, daemons, just life-suckers. You should have killed Roxy four decades ago and now here you are, following her into the bowels of an ancient library on the naïve hope she won't put a knife between your shoulder blades the instant your back is turned.

You're just about working yourself up into a proper panic attack, hyperventilation and all, when she catches your eye and offers you a bright, guileless smile. You can't conceive of her  _lying_ to you, somehow, despite knowing, logically, that she likely has and will continue to far into the future. You know this is stupid and probably a glamour on her part. It makes you feel better anyway.

"Jane? You all right?"

"Fine," you manage, and summon your pitchfork. You feel better with it in hand. At the very least, you'll be able to defend yourself in the event of a betrayal. _You're thinking too much._

"You look like you're about to pass a kidney stone," she remarks, and slows her pace. "Got something to spit out?"

"Nothing." You shake your head, clear it of invasive thoughts. You can't afford to be distracted. And you couldn't tell her any of it, either, tell the very subject of your consternation everything that consternates you. So instead, you indulge your curiosity. "I have a few questions."

"When don't you. Every time I see you, seems like you've got another line of inquiry lined up." At your disappointed noise, she adds, "S' a joke, Jaycee, just a joke. I don't care, really. Shoot!"

"Well." You start down a flight of stairs, rickety old things that are boxed in by narrow walls and only one rotting railing. You plant your pitchfork as you go down, for balance; it glows faintly, offering some light besides the candelabras mounted on the wall. "You called - Azazel? - a 'Class A.'"

"Mmhm. S' what it is."

"I was wondering how you adjudicated that. What's the difference between an A and a B? Or a demon and a daemon?" You flush at your own ignorance. "I feel I should be educated on the subject, you know."

She laughs. "Shit. By the time you're done with me, I'll have spilled everything there is to know about Hell."

"I should hope so. It'd be an indication that I've done my job."

"Job, job, job. Janey, I don't think we've ever had a conversation where it didn't all come back around to your job."

"I am wedded to my work. Are you going to answer my question?"

She sighs, starts her descent besides you, one hand on your shoulder for balance. "Okay, but, like, I don't know how to explain this without going into a bunch of boring shit about, like, demon biology and stuff."

"Simplify as much as you can, then, please."

"Mmkay." The click of her heels on the stairs is unflagging and rhythmic. "Demons and daemons are different, first off. You knew that, but I thought you'd probably wanna keep that in mind, because there's a difference between an asshole that feeds off sin and an asshole that feeds off people."

"You're the former."

"Bingo. And the guy downstairs is the latter."

You pause. "Do you mean Satan, or -"

"No. Satan is one of the Fallen, Jane, learn your goddamn history." 

That quiets you. The Fallen aren't spoken of in the Host, except in passing, derogatory remarks or unscrupulous comments about someone's morality; they're specters of evil to be compared to, not subjects of discussion, and younger angels never learn what they are. The legend of the Morningstar is the only thing that remains of their mythos, and even that, from what you've gathered, is unconditional taboo.

She continues. "Class A and Class B is a power thing. Like, think of it like, B is 'drunk guy with a revolver outside a pub while you've got a penknife and fifty quid,' whereas A's, 'Child of a poltergeist and a Class B with serious emotional issues, and also really damn hard to kill.'"

"How damn hard to kill?"

"'Took Michael three tries' hard to kill," she says quietly, and your stomach drops out of you. You wish Jake would hurry. He wouldn't flinch at something like that.

"It never took Michael three tries to kill anything," you shoot back, but it lacks sting. You say it out of some vague idea that you should defend your pseudosibling, but she can probably tell that your heart isn't in it, and she keeps talking to distract you both from the fact that you're entering aforementioned deadly entity's underground lair.

"Sure it didn't." She whistles to lighten the mood. It's the same damn six notes, and you're faintly scared that you'll never be able to get them out of your head. "Anyway. Daemons are simpler. We're just here for a laugh, a good long roll around the Earth before time's all up. Killing us is a sight easier, too."

"How do you do it?"

Her glance is wry. "Like I'm gonna tell you, Janey, when you're up and getting Angel-of-the-Lordy and shit. Suffice it to say that whatever'll do for a demon will do for me." She points at your pitchfork. "Particularly said shiny stabber you've pulled outta nowhere, there."

You heft it. "To be fair, this would kill anything."

"Figured." She eyes it. "Keep the pointy end away from me."

"Oh, sorry, dear. I'd just about figured I'd rest the blade on your neck, holding it gets ever so tiring."

She snorts. "Toss it back into the oblivion, then, it makes me all hells of nervous looking at."

"Does it?"

"Well, I'm not exactly  _comfy,_ hanging around something that was designed for the express purpose of killing those like yours truly, but seeing as it's your weapon and all, and I don't think you're looking to kill me just yet, I won't ask you to put it away."

"Good. Because I wouldn't."

"That's another reason."

She trots down a few more stairs in silence, and you hold your pitchfork away from her, just an inch, tilting it into the wall instead of letting it drift naturally to the right, where she stands. You think you'd feel uncomfortable too, given her situation, and she asked politely, after all.

"Earlier," you say. "You said something about someone called Our Lady Lilith."

"Huh. Oh, yeah. Force of habit, it's common slang. Worship of Lilith's close as anyone comes to religion, in the Big Downunder."

"She's a goddess."

"Nah, she's a demon, but she's the best one. Strongest, I guess. You don't fuck with Lilith." She doesn't elaborate. Perhaps she thinks that Lilith's incontestable supremacy needs no elaboration. You decide that's enough questions and cast around for a topic of conversation that won't involve discussions of imminent death or Roxy's origin. The fact that you come up scarce is a depressing one.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and have to up the glow of your pitchfork to compensate for a lack of light. The boiler room is at the end of a long hallway, papered in ugly green, undoubtedly bug-infested and likely uncleaned since before you were born. 

"Well, this is lovely." You have to will yourself not to be annoyed. It's not fair to expect mortals to scrub down every inch of every public facility for the possibility of an angelic visit. You wish they'd have scrubbed these few inches, though. 

"I've seen worse." Roxy's quiet again, and you're learning that quiet isn't so much uncharacteristic of her as it is one of her phases, one spoke on a great big wheel of her emotions that nobody's seen the entirety of and likely never will. She's so odd and you want to sit her down and pull every secret out of her, but you don't have time for that and you wouldn't want to force them out of her anyway, not when you suspect she'd offer them up herself if she trusted you enough. You don't know if you want her to trust you; it's all so confusing, down here in the dark beneath a library.

"Let me lead," you tell her, and hold your pitchfork aloft, and forge a path through the shadows.

She pads after you, heels softer on rotting wood and nails tracing along the wall to keep herself steady. You really wish you'd waited for Jake. Jake would be sprinting ahead of you by now, no fear, no anxiety concerning the dark door that awaits the pair of you. 

"When I was younger," you begin, mostly to break what has so far been a long stretch of silence and scuttling bugs and arhythmic footsteps, "I thought that the only way to kill a demon was to set it on fire and cut off its head."

The corner of her mouth twitches. "What gave you that idea?"

"Jake, mostly, because one of the older members of the Host had told him as a joke and he believed it. I bet they thought they were quite funny, poking fun like that at a fledgling, but it wasn't. Particularly when he went looking for a demon to try it out on."

Her sharp intake of breath is enough to sell you on her interest." He roped me into it, too; more the fool me, I suppose, but we were both young - hardly forty, going on fifty, in no business to be wandering around looking for trouble. We only found a Class-B - by your standards - thank goodness, but golly, if it wasn't a doozy getting out of. It took three older members to get us out of it, we worked ourselves into such a state. Jake had to take off a year to heal. It was, ah, funny, in retrospect." It doesn't sound funny, you realize, the way you're telling it. You flush. You wish you were good at telling stories. Jake is great at telling stories - when he tells that one, it has everyone in tears. 

"Sounds like an asshole," she says quietly. "That angel. Whoever they were."

"I'm sure they thought it was just a lighthearted joke."

She frowns, reaches for the sleeve of her cardigan, hikes it up to the elbow. A long, ribbed scar laces together the dark skin there, a clean line from elbow to wrist. "I got that when I was two-fifty," she says. "Hardly more than a teenager, by our standards. Hanging around in north Canada, just chilling. Ran across one of Dirk's old friends, kind that a sort like you'd kill on sight." You understand perfectly what she means by _sort like you._ "Said hi by tackling me onto a major thoroughfare. It wasn't personal for him, y'know, it was the kind of thing that Dirk's old pals did every day. It was downright friendly, y'know, he thought it was just good manners - couldn't respect anyone, in his opinion, if you didn't fight them first. He didn't mean to hurt anybody." She taps her forearm. "That doesn't make the scar go away."

You know she's saying something, but you deliberately ignore it. "I _would_ kill him on sight," you say instead. "You're right."

"Be still my beating heart. If I wanted him dead, he would be."

"Undoubtedly."

You reach the end of the hallway and grasp the doorknob firmly. She's impassive, giving you a lazy grin and a nod of encouragement. You wonder if she's ever felt fear in her life.

Then you fling open the door and charge inside, pitchfork aloft, to discover - nothing.

You stumble to a halt and wave your weapon around to illuminate the room fully. Steam lingers in the edges of the room, puffing from the enormous rusting machinery and the piping that runs across the walls and dives up into the ceiling. The floor is bare cement, stained with a plethora of fluids that you neither attempt nor want to identify, and shadows shift in the corners in ways that make your eyes dart around to try and cling to a point of focus. It's hot and moist and uncomfortable but it doesn't seem evil, at least, not to you.

Roxy, on the other hand, lingers in the doorway and eyes those shadowy corners with palpable discomfort. "Well, there you go, sis. I'm either right or safe."

"Which would you rather be?"

"Safe," she says, unerringly. "Every time."

"Do you have a weapon?"

"Yeah," she says, "I got one," and then from the depths of nowhere drops the _biggest_   _bloody gun_ you've ever seen in your life.

"Dear God, Roxy," you exclaim, and she beams, hefts it in her hand, flexes her fingers around the trigger.

"Not all of us fight primordial demons with a pitchfork, Janey," she tells you, and you melt, just a little, because even if you're still not inclined to use them yourself, you'll admit there's nothing quite like a person with a perfectly massive firearm in your corner to make your odds look a tad better.

"Where did you even get something like that?"

"Picked it up in Germany in '42. She's a beauty, isn't she?" 

You bite back a smile. "She's certainly something."

 Raising your trident, you make a slow inspection of the room, starting in the furthest corner and moving across the far wall. There doesn't seem to be any primordial presence there, or if so, it's obscured by the general filth of the area. Grime and dust is packed between the floorboards and muffles the noise of machinery, clacking along and shrieking with the strain of century-old pipes doing a job they're unfit for. Roxy lingers near the exit, a habit you've noticed she keeps naturally, regardless of how the situation befits it. The viewport of her gun focuses somewhere around your left knee. You hope it's unintentionally; you don't imagine she'd bring you down here just to kill you, but if she had, this would certainly be a good way to do it.

Panic from earlier fights its way out of the cage you put it in. The sheer  _idea_  of what you're doing rolls over you in an unexpected wave of terror, loosening your knees at the joints and curdling the contents of your stomach like milky tea left to rot in the sun. Locked hundreds of feet below the streets of Edinburgh with a daemon who happens to have a weapon far outmatching yours in firepower, the stench of iron smoke tangy in the back of your throat, a smell so much like blood you couldn't tell it apart from your own, the thick, unbreathable air coiling up in your lungs and scraping at them for vitality - you can't die here - you don't want to die here -

"Jane?"

The feeling reaches its peak and then folds over you like a wave, blanketing thought, numbing sensation; you stumble against a wall. You don't know what's happening to you - you were fine, five minutes ago, why aren't you fine - you  _should_ be fine -

" _Jane!"_

Then you notice the black oily mass growing behind the boiler, and you understand.

Demons exude fear. They propagate during wartime, in the bunks of terrified soldiers or in the attics of frightened families, and then feed on the corpses left behind; they're vicious parasites, clinging like fungal growths to the underbelly of one's psychological health, feeding fear to compound preexisting anxiety. When their meals are wound up well and petrified and incapable of doing anything, minds frozen up, demons spring. You've seen the aftermath of a feeding before, on the trail. The black blood welling from orifices blood shouldn't be coming from, red lines like sharp fingerprints across the back and encircling the throat like a flushed choker. Patchy skin, a symbol burned into the back of the neck - you had to take a moment aside and throw up.

The being that made those marks rises before you over the boiler. It grows to seven feet, the height of the room, and then  _expands,_ pushing oily tentacles away from its body in a grotesque contortion act, flesh bubbling and popping with the effort. It sounds like tar boiling over on a stovepipe, drowning out the hiss and wail of the boiler, making silent Roxy's shouting - you can't tell what she's trying to say, couldn't tell even if you could hear her - and from the center of the black mass opens a singular gold eye. It studies you with a hateful intelligence. You can't move. Your throat feels sewn shut. Breathing, too, starts becoming difficult, the stench of the creature pervading the room as it does.

It reaches critical mass and then stops, and for a moment, everything in the room is still. Roxy is frozen in the doorway, probably torn between sticking around to watch your imminent murder or fleeing for her life. You consider giving her your last words and conclude that your mouth wouldn't do a thing you told it to, at the moment.

Then it moves.

It's faster than your eye can track. One of its arms goes for your neck, while another for your wrist; it squeezes around the narrow bones, and you can feel something pop under the strain of the hold; another arm still wraps around your pitchfork and wrenches, almost pulling your arm out of your socket. The impact runs up your arm and wrenches your body forward, and the pain breaks your paralysis. 

Your pitchfork glows bright enough to blind and the arm around it burns, sizzles, evaporates into a cluster of gold dust. You drive it across your body and cut through the other arm, twisting and taking out the appendage around your wrist on the backstroke. Twirling your weapon, you thrust forward, and it recoils from the heat; you herd it backwards, into the corner, feeling triumphant and avenging and like Michael standing on Satan's God-damned back. 

You press it into the corner and then hesitate for a moment, blades level with its eye; then a shot whizzes over your shoulder and embeds itself in the flesh just north of Azazel's eye, and it screams, vaults itself over your shoulder, and catapults itself toward the door. 

You spin and try to skewer it while in motion, but it's gone before your point can make contact. It launches itself instead at Roxy. She fires three more shots, but misses the eye - then it gets an arm around her neck and she drops the gun, scrabbling at the constriction around her windpipe, gasping. One of her heels makes contact with what you presume to be the thing's face and she twists, and its shrieking whine is satisfying, as is the sneer on her face. Her nails tear into the arm at her neck, but she grows limp as it constricts tighter, tighter still. It makes a gruesome clicking noise of satisfaction and you charge it from behind. 

It spins to face you and flings Roxy away. She sails through the air like a puppet and connects with the far wall, back first, then her head - a sharp  _thump-_ _CRACK_  - and she tumbles to the floor, silent and motionless. 

It takes you a moment to realize you're screaming, that the sound scraping ragged your throat is a visceral sound of rage and violence and fear. Your wings unfold from your back, and they  _glow_ , brilliant gold like your weapon, and the light comes from your eyes and your throat and you can barely breathe over the desire to  _kill_ that overwhelms you all at once, from nowhere; you toss the pitchfork aside, and it registers to you that you may be a little out of your mind, but the thought is pushed back and then drowned in all of the gold that's dripping from you, from the wings behind your back, that leaks into your skin until every inch of you blazes like the Morningstar.

You advance slowly, still screaming, but it's not a scream any more; it's a song, high and cold and mellifluous, replete with layered notes and trills that a human voice could never make. Azazel is trying to back away from you. It's afraid of you. You are viciously glad. It should be.

You leap for it, fingers outstretched like claws, and dig your hands into its face. It screams, then, too, terror and pain, all terror and pain, terror and pain and the thrashing misery of a beast that knows it's beaten. The flesh under yours bubbles and melts. It withers.

In a last-ditch effort for survival, it seizes your abandoned pitchfork and clubs you upside the head with it, sending you sprawling. Your head spins and in the act of catching yourself, your wings lash open one of the pipes. Smoke gushes into the room and hides the demon as it tries to scurry away, using its longer arms to pull itself through the door like a spider. For a terrified moment you think it's free; but the gold from your hands clings to it, acid burning away at its skin, and even as it escapes you can see it eroding. It's dying. You've killed it. It's almost dead.

Then two gunshots pierce the noise of the boiler room, carving through the demon cleanly in the eye. Azazel slumps over, the last remnants of your gold eating at its carcass. You lift your head in time to see Jake step over the body and stride into the boiler room, both of his guns breathing smoke. 

"Jake," you say. Your throat aches and you suspect you've blown out your vocal chords. No wonder, that. " _Thank_ you."

"No problem, Janey, but golly, you should've waited for me." He frowns at the dead demon and nudges it with his foot. "What happened to it?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "I - I did something, something awfully abnormal - it was all light and - and music - I haven't the slightest -" A fit of coughing wracks your body. "It _hurt."_

"We'd better be on our way, then. We'll get a room at the Chester, patch you up right, get a kip - no good staying here, there'll be people here to check out the ruckus in minutes, by my guess." He kneels to tug your arm over his shoulders, hefting you up. "C'mon, there's a girl."

You shove off him instead, abruptly flinging yourself toward the corner, gasping, "Roxy."

She's immobile, although her eyelashes are fluttering. Her legs are tilted at an angle from her body they really shouldn't be, and her chest has caved in on itself; you can't tell if anything is wrong with her neck, but her hair is dyed black with blood. It's a strange, viscous scarlet, her blood, darker than a human's but nowhere near your own color. Her eyes are flashing pink-brown-purple-pink like neon fluorescents, and you put a hand to forehead, comb the sweaty soot-stained hair from her face. "Roxy," you insist. "Roxy -  _talk,_ why don't you - darling -"

Her groan is agonized and swallows you with unfettered, intoxicating relief. Blood bubbles from between her lips as she spits, " _Fuck."_

"Roxy?" Jake hurries to crouch beside you. He wrings his hands, an image utterly in conflict with the suave adventurer he presented before. "Cheese and fucking crackers, Jane, what happened to her?"

"Fuckin' demons," she snarls. "Fuckin'  _assholes,_ that's what I call 'em - shouldn't have let myself get dragged down here, the fuck do I think I'm doing, gettin' caught up with angels and shit -"

"Hush, hush." You comb your fingers through her hair. "You're being an enormous help, that's what you're doing. What's hurting?"

"Didn't do anything but make it mad - holy Hell, Janey, what did you even  _do_ to it -" She cranes her neck to see it, but you suspect that it's mostly gone by now, at the rate your acid was wearing it down. "Looked like fuckin' Jesus himself decided to haul his lordly ass down here and sing that wiggly fucker a pain symphony."

"I doubt that."

She pats your cheek. You feel something sticky wipe off on your face. "Shut up, I'm dying, let me have my say."

"You're not dying, and you wouldn't be in pain, either, if you would just  _tell me what was wrong!"_ You can't help yourself from snapping. "I'm an - an  _angel,_ Roxy, do you think I can't  _heal_ things like this? Just _tell me!_ "

"Oh." She stares at you, her eyes like saucers. "You wanna - uh -"

"Yes, _that's_ what I'm doing, you damnable buffoon!"

"Janey," Jake exclaims.

"Shut up, Jake."

"Well." She coughs again. "I, uh. I can't feel my legs. Which is, uh, kind of fine by me, because if I could I'd probably be in all hells of pain -"

"Lungs? What about those?"

"They hurt."

"I guessed. How do they feel?"

"Somethin' like popped balloons - man, if you could just get a move on, because I think there's a regular blood ocean fillin' up in there, and it's not exactly a comfy position, if you get me -"

"Hold still, then, and bite around something. Jake, move, you're in my light." Not that there was much light to begin with, in the boiler room; but you'll make do. You've seen worse. He shuffles out of your way quickly. You're in your element, now -  _this_ is what you do; you heal people. It's what you were meant to do. It's infinitely more comfortable territory than fighting demons.

You place your hands on the few pieces of unbroken skin on her stomach and they light up. When you close your eyes, you can see the vast labyrinth of vessels and bones and nerves winding away beneath your fingers. You can see the struggling tubes of alveoli as they fight the blood in her lungs, the lacerations in the lung sacs themselves, the ribs curling unnaturally into the organs. You start by pulling the bones back up into order and sealing the breaks; then you pull the blood from the lungs, feeding it back into the open veins. You sew up the punctures and then Roxy her first deep, shuddering,  _clean_ breath.

You move your hands to her legs and find one dislocated, the other broken, and an injury at the base of the spine that paralyzes them. You decide to fix the legs first, because the paralysis acts as natural anesthetic. It takes some pushing to get both bones into place, and then almost five minutes of work on each leg to seal the fractures. When you heal the spinal injury, Roxy yelps and then clamps down on her tongue to weather the pain. 

The last injury is at the back of her head, and you simply run your fingers along that, gently, and it seals itself up quickly. When you're finished her entire body glows slightly, and you back away, your hands tickling pleasantly from the buzz of healing. Your heart plods steadily in rhythm with hers. It's a soothing process, healing; you've never felt so at peace. 

"You're well," you tell her.

"Damn right I am." She stretches and winces. "And stiff as hell, but, like, given the alternative?" 

"Can you stand?" You wind an arm under one of hers and she leans on you heavily for balance as she struggles to her feet.

"Uh, technically. Man, this is weird. Never healed that quick before. Body's gotta figure out it's not totally wrecked anymore, you feel me?" Her smile is quick and unconvincing. You suspect she's still suffering some degree of psychosomatic pain.

Jake supports her from the other side. "Here, miss, let me -"

"Ah, it's no biggie, Jake, it really isn't -"

With the both of you holding her up, she can stand fully upright and walk at a near-standard pace. "We'd better go," you say. "People will be here soon."

"Yeah, likely." She turns to look at you. Her face is terribly close; you can count her eyelashes and freckles. "You guys ever had a breakfast in Edinburgh?"

* * *

 The three of you go to a bakehouse a few blocks east of the library. Roxy limps in first and murmurs something inaudible to the waitress, who immediately gives you a table sequestered between the window and the wall and close to the exit. You don't ask and Roxy doesn't tell, and Jake gives you both curious looks but has the good sense not to bother her about it. Later on, the waitress brings all of you pillows to rest on, and again you don't ask how, but appreciate the luxury of padding against your back and a comfortable spot to rest in. Roxy puts in an order for the table, and not half a minute later the waitress comes back with armfuls of food: two pots of coffee, bacon omelets sizzling hot from the pan, whole wheat toast slathered with butter, trays of fruit piled high with strawberries and grapefruit, fat tins of pillowy cream for dipping, tall cups of orange juice cold enough to frost the glass, fried tomatoes, waffles, and three Bloody Marys.

Jake inhales his third of it within fifteen minutes and then reaches for seconds from your plate, which you unapologetically give to him. You couldn't imagine eating so much just after seeing so much blood; it sits ill in your stomach, although you nibble on a strawberry to appease them. Roxy doesn't touch an ounce of it except for her drink, which she sips periodically but puts down before it's even half empty. You catch her eyes drifting to the other patrons of the restaurant, gorging themselves on hearty food and fine drink, and you say, at length, "You can. If you must."

"Hmm?" She glances at you as if she doesn't have a clue what you're talking about.

"Feed." You fold your hands and stare at them. "Given the exertion of recent events. You can, if you must, and I won't think less of you for it. Nor will Jake."

"Oh. I don't need to, just now, but thanks anyway, Jaycee." She fiddles with her straw. "Kind of killed my appetite, almost dying."

"You didn't almost die."

"Yeah, I pretty much did, Janey, you just brought me back. Doesn't mean I wasn't almost knocking on Hell's door." 

You thin your lips and try not to argue. Jake has settled back from his meal with a cup of coffee and watches the banter, silent, wide-eyed. You suspect he'll tease you about it ruthlessly later and resign yourself to the inevitable ribbing.

She tips her head against the window, peaceful in the early morning light - dawn breaks gently outside the shop, a reminder of how long you spent trapped underground - and her features painted serenely with warm daybreak. Her eyes are a deep, rich brown, and they stay that way, human and soft, watching the shop with a kind of gentility a mother bestows upon her children. It's a distant interest that occupies her face, lazy, waiting for the world to present itself before her and ready to judge when it comes.

You catch yourself staring and drop your fork. The clang of silverware doesn't startle her so much as it transfers her interest to you, and if  _that_ isn't a peculiar sensation; her eyes dwell on your face, trace the fold of your hair, slide along the curve of your neck. It dances the border between flattering and intrusive.

Jake coughs, and the moment is lost. You want to hug him and punch him simultaneously; you settle for handing him a cup and asking him to pour you more coffee, for you haven't had a wink of sleep last night, and you'd do well to put some more caffeine in your system. 

"So," Roxy says. "What happens now?"

You contemplate it. Under normal circumstances, nothing. You and Jake would wander around for a few days before your next assignment; maybe go to a moving picture, maybe pick up a book or two, maybe find some charming young people to hang around with before your inevitable departure. News of your success will undoubtedly have reached your employer by now, and there will be some shuffling around to do before another mission can be allotted the pair of you. There's no protocol for what to do with the daemon you've appointed to your service; there isn't protocol for daemons, generally. The rule can best be described as live and let live, unless they're doing any significant harm, and Roxy's never done any harm so long as you've known her. She's done you a great service, really. But she refused to be absolved. 

_You're in her debt._

You ignore that. It's an unofficial debt, and as far as heavenly contracts go, an informal agreement with a daemon won't bind you. But it's a dangerous thing, owing people favors.

"Nothing happens," you say, "until a lot of things all happen at once."

"What's  _going_ to happen?"

Jake pipes up. "We'll be on our way, soon enough, and you're free to go gallivanting wherever you please. Pleasure as it has been working with you, miss, it's your rightful prerogative to be on your merry way whensoever it suits you."

"Are you telling me to get lost?" Her smile is playful.

"No! Heavens, no. I was just suggesting -"

You take over. "Jake was trying to tell you that you're not obligated to stay with us. Clumsily."

"Hey, now!"

"Glad that clears things up. What about you guys, though?"

You trace the rim of your mug slowly. "We're off, soon. Who knows where."

Her face sinks, almost imperceptibly so, but you notice it. "Your job, huh?"

"Precisely." You hate yourself for being so businesslike about this, but you don't know any other way to be. It's all you've been trained to do: get it done, deal with the aftermath, tie up loose ends. Roxy is a long, tangled, unpredictable loose end. "It would be best not to muddle the situation beyond what damage has already been done."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that we'll pay for your prompt departure from Edinburgh. On the condition that you keep secret all that you have seen, you needn't worry about transport or the comfort thereof." Your voice is clinical and exact. This has always been your job - damage control isn't Jake's forte. 

"Oh." She fishes in her glass and pulls out a sprig of cilantro, which she eats whole. "I get it. So I'm, uh, a liability."

"That isn't a negative attribute. It's merely a consequence of your aid in finishing the case."

"Egad, Jane," Jake mutters.

"Nah, it's all cool, brother." She slaps him on the shoulder. "I get it. Nothing personal, right? Just good ol' professionalism." She fixes a smile on her face, easy and careless. "There's a bus rolling out of here in half an hour. Suits me fine, as far as comfort's concerned."

"We'll get you on it, then."

"Good."

"Good."

She pats at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and pushes back her chair. "I'll, uh, be in the restroom."

Jake waits for her to be well out of earshot before he sets his mug down with more than adequate force, glares at you, and whispers, "That was uncalled for."

"It was  _exactly_ called for!"

"She did you a great help! You didn't need to be so -"

"Efficient?"

"Cruel, Jane!" His voice cracks incredulously.

"You don't know her so well as I do - she can handle it. She's not glass."

"So? That doesn't excuse abominable manners -"

"Manners? I don't know what else to  _do -"_

"Basic decency might be a start, golly -"

 _"I don't know what else to do!"_ You hiss at him. "I don't know what else to - she's appearing everywhere, Jake, I've met her twice since the party - I don't know if she's haunting me, or if she's sent to test me, or if she's even a daemon at all - what are the odds of something like that? Two billion people people in the world, and I run into the same one  _thrice!_ The odds are - they're miraculous, that's what they are."

"So your first thought is to send her away!"

"My first thought is for my  _job_ ," you insist. "The one I was born for, you remember it? She's - lovely, I admit, and I like her awfully, but - she can't be made to trot along after us everywhere. What kind of arrangement is that? It wouldn't work at all. Two angels and their pet daemon, that's what they'd say."

"Who cares?"

"Who cares?" Your voice leaps up an octave, scandalized. "The Host, for one thing, and - and you should, for another!"

He shrugs aggressively, his expression fierce. "God's sake, I really don't give a hooting damn about what I _ought_ to think. I think what I do, and that can't be helped, one way or another."

"What do you want me to do?" You're tired and miserable and you want to stop fighting. "Tell me what I should do instead."

He stares into his coffee. "I dunno. Just be kind to her, when she gets back, all right? The job oughtn't make animals out of us."

You restrain a sigh and nod. "All right, Jake." Roxy emerges from the bathroom, her face cleaner and her clothes a bit smoother. When she catches your eye, she offers a small smile, clear across the room, just for you. "I'll try to be."

* * *

 You and Roxy stand outside as Scotland's skies open up and start to pour. Rain here is furious, thick, and makes holding an umbrella against it feel like physical exercise. The wind has died down somewhat, but you huddle in the little enclave of the bus stop nonetheless, cold and kind of miserable but neither of you complaining about it. Jake went off to find a room for you and him, while you promised to see Roxy safe on her bus, and in retrospect you regret taking the roles you did. You'd have rather said goodbye to her in the safe company of another person, and then let Jake work his magical charming wiles on her so she'd bound off with a smile on her face and a skip in her step; as it is, he'll end up overpaying for a room and you'll say something wrong and she'll be running out of your life again on some dilapidated bus going God knows where. The whole thing reads like such an ostentatious metaphor that you almost laugh.  

She coughs and breaks the silence. "I, uh, guess it's redundant to promise I'll write you."

"Quite."

"Still, though. Like, the sentiment's there."

"Ah. Likewise." You struggle to say something sentimental in return. "I really appreciated you being here."

"Oh, man. Thanks." She seems mildly surprised, although you can't imagine why. "I didn't do all that much, to be honest, 'cept get totally wrecked and give you half a panic attack, but, like, thanks anyway."

"Half a panic attack?"

"You know." She pulls her arms up to her chest and flaps her hands, mimicking tiny wings. "The big shiny opera you pulled out of your ass. Dunno what happened, but, like, you were  _pissed."_

"Oh, yes." You're quiet. You put a hand out in the rain and it massages your arm in thousands of little pinpricks. "I don't know what that was, to be frank."

"You'd better get around to figuring it out, then, Feathers, because it's something amazing."

You catch her eye and she's grinning. It's a kind grin, borne of a shared joke, a little bit of wonder, and enough pride to make you dizzy. 

"I may not see you again," you say, utterly and completely ruining the moment.

"Oh, you will." She punches your arm. "Can't seem to get rid of me, can you, eh?"

"Once I'm done with my next assignment. We can meet somewhere and get coffees, or something. And talk." 

She looks you hard in the eye. "Jane, I don't want to step on your toes here. But -"

"What?"

"You're never going to be done with your next assignment," she tells you, brutally honest. "You're always going to have another thing to do, some other schmuck to save, another asshole to hunt. You're not - you don't do vacations, you told me you don't do vacations. And hey, look, I'd love to meet up with you again, talk, hell, do whatever - I _like_ you, Janey - but don't - don't lie to yourself, right, because you're promising me something that's never gonna happen, and all things said and done, I dunno if you even realize how much your job is to you."

"I'm not just my job."

"No," she says, shaky, "but you're pretty damn dedicated, you know?"

"I'll take a break," you promise, but the words feel empty and you know she's right, which makes them feel even emptier. 

"No, you won't." The bus cuts through the flooding road and sluices water over onto the curb. It soaks your shoes. The door creaks open and Roxy steps forward, into the rain; water immediately sinks the fluffy bounce of her hair and the volume of her clothes, making her small and dark and more compact. She blinks droplets from her eyelashes and you can just make out the glaze of pink under the heavy black makeup and through the grey mists rolling off the bus exhausts.

"Miss you," you say.

"Likewise, Crocker. Don't be a stranger, now." She hesitates with one hand on the railing and one foot on the stair. On an impulse, she steals forward, a lithe little scrap of pink in the rain, and plants a kiss on your cheek - a familiar movement, by now, but one that catches you by surprise anyway. Your heart stutters and your cheek heats, water from her lips running down your face in warm tracks and the oil of her lipstick smearing along the line of one cheekbone.

Then she darts up onto the bus and, with a splutter and another wave of smoke, it pulls away, quickly gathering speed.

"Won't be," you say, as she flies off into the grey morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Chester" refers to The Chester Residence, supposedly the best hotel in Edinburgh. Angels can afford to live nice, when they're not on the run.
> 
> Azazel is a demon in multiple mythos; in some, it's a goat demon, and in others, a fallen angel. Who knows?


	4. Chapter 4

The pair of you drift across the world like a pair of long-distance binary stars.

You meet her in Rome in 1950, stars in her eyes and a new haircut; in Taiwan in 1952, where she's taken to gaudy rings and eight-inch heels; in Mexico City in early 1953, chasing her down an alley street when she mistakes you for a policeman. Calgary in late 1953 finds you both huddling near the fireplace in a hotel lobby for warmth because a storm blew out the heating unit. Lagos in 1954 turns her into a taxi driver, and you a weary patron looking for a ride to the nearest airport after a long and emotionally taxing assignment. You start to tell the shape of her face without anything else. What her hair looks like, what her eyes look like, what her body looks like - irrelevant to the _picture_ of her, the curve of her cheekbone or the broad arch of her nose. The sound of her. The feel of her. You can spot her from a hundred yards and it becomes like a sixth sense. A faint bell ringing in the back of your head when she's nearby or on the approach. Why not? Stranger things have happened than your little series of serendipity.

_Mumbai, 1951. Beijing, 1952. Suzhou, 1953._

You save her life in Lima, Peru. She's caught by vengeful old friend of hers who'd got it through his head that she owed him some money. He's got her pressed up against the wall of an alley when you shove your pitchfork through his head like a knife through wet cardboard. He topples with his knife still clutched in hand and you hold her at the elbows, delicately, and ask her if she's all right, if she needs anything. She stares at you like a philistine facing salvation and you make a point of not looking at her directly, afraid of what you'll see in her saucer-wide eyes.

_Cairo, 1954. Sao Paulo, 1955. Jakarta, 1956._

She saves your life in New Zealand after a dam break that kills 151 people and almost takes you with it; you're on the train as it crashes into the dam, and she pulls you from the current and drags your limp body the four miles to safety. You wake up hacking out a lungful of water while she clings to your shirt and mumbles insensible gratitude into the back of your neck, hugging you to keep you sturdy on the tiny mountainside ledge she's found. You sit and watch the water wipe the world clean.

_Dhaka, 1957. Yokohama, 1958. Ankara, 1959._

She gets drunk in a pub in Nairobi and you have to carry her bridal-style up to the small motel room you've rented. She giggles the whole way there and if she's a little handsier with you, it's only because she's drunk, and you've learned that she's more tactile after a few good dents to the old inhibition centers. You set her down on the bed and wrestle her under the covers, a match which is hard fought but results in the tie of her draping one leg across the bedsheets and using you as her pillow. You let her because it's the only way to get her to sit still and get some rest.

She wriggles around until she's comfortable, a process which involves planting her elbow squarely in a few of your softer spots, and then curls around your waist in the cat-like manner she sleeps everywhere. Her back is to the exit and her face is mashed up against your stomach, and it when she talks it tickles you. Most of what she says is gibberish, the voice of a subconscious given sudden and unprecedented authority over the voice box. It isn't until you're half asleep that she murmurs the odd lucid thought, something about cats, something about blue, something about a man named Dirk that she always talks about and never tells you about.

"I'm going to kill you," she says, her tongue tripping around the consonants.

You blink. "Not in this state, you're not."

"Not in _tennnnnnn_ tionally. M'just. M'gonna." She picks at a fraying stitch in your dress. "S' gonna happen, one of these days. Almost did, already."

"If you're talking about Bangkok -"

"M  _not_ talking about Bangkok, thank'y, but that's a good example. You coulda died."

"I didn't, though."

"Coulda!" Her whine breaks the verge of childishness. "Coulda."

"You could have, too. You didn't."

"I know. I'm just tellin' you."

"Telling me you're going to kill me," you say, and can't be bothered to restrain your amusement. "You're quite drunk."

"M'not! M'not."

"You are. Go to sleep, and when you wake up, you won't be drunk any more and we can talk about it then."

"I won't say it then," she says, and a yawn splits the end of the sentence. "I'm gonna wake up and not say a  _gosh darned_ thing about it, that's the God-sworn truth." She grins loopily. "God-sworn truth." She looks at you from under her eyelids and her irises are swirling masses of solid pink, as they always are, when she's like this. You suspect it's their natural color.

"Well, then. How, exactly, will you kill me?" You push sweat-plastered hair back from her forehead and her eyes slide shut at the cool touch.

"You're gonna be tryin' to help me," she mutters. "Jane - you're gonna die tryin' to get me out of some shit that I well an' proper fucked up myself, and that's the God-sworn truth."

"An illogical and ill-evidenced claim. I refuse to believe it." 

"You never believe me."

"I believe every word you've ever said that wasn't a lie," you say loftily, and tug the blankets further up around her legs. "And I'll die when I'm good and ready, Roxy, not a day sooner."

"Whenzzat, then?"

"Never, barring further developments."

"Ah. That's good." She nods as if you've said something unspeakably wise. "You shouldn't die."

"I won't."

"S'good. I'd - I mean, I'll kill you, y'know, someday, but you shouldn't . . ." Her head lolls back on the pillow and she snores.

You put an arm around her to hold her steady and prevent her neck from developing an ache, and settle into the bed. The wind shrieks and batters itself against the walls but can pass no further than the door; the walls are close and snug, and the soft noise of Roxy mumbling in her sleep fills the room easily. The light from the lamp is dull and gentle on your tired eyes. Reality slips to and fro before your senses, your conscious and unconscious minds playing catch with sensation until life blurs into dream and back again as a matter of course. Roxy is warm against your side and the room smells of vanilla perfume. You float.

* * *

 You know, in your heart of hearts, that becoming involved with a daemon is the worst of all possible bad ideas. She's no more trustworthy now than she was forty, fifty years ago. Daemons aren't known for playing the long game, but it's a bad idea for you to test the theory, nonetheless.

You also know, in your heart of hearts, that she's teaching you not to care.

* * *

_Casablanca, 1960. Baghdad, 1961. Lahore, 1962._

She says her favorite place in the world is a park in Vancouver, Canada, and in September of 1963, she takes you there. It's a swath of grass carved out from the concrete city around it, a few square miles across, and lined with russet-gold trees that whisper and babble with the wind in perpetual white noise. It overlooks the harbor, where neat white cutters glide across the murky turquoise water, sails slicing clean lines in the effervescent blue sky. A row of silvery olive mountains dots the horizon and blots the clean line of the water far into the distance; closer, the landscape is peppered with bikers that zoom from time to time across your line of sight. People are clustered on the lawn, basking in the sunlight or sequestered under trees. Laughter will on occasion ring out from one of those collections and adds another layer of noise, but the impression, on the whole, is a quiet place.

"Isn't it the best?" Her head is nestled snugly on your stomach, and she seems disinclined to ever remove it. "S' the best place I've ever been."

"It's quiet."

"Yeah. I like that about it." You're propped up on one elbow to get a better view of the water. You watch a group of children haul their boat away from port, tugging expertly at the ropes and snapping open their wide triangular sail.

"I've never been to Vancouver before. I always thought it would be a nice place to take a trip, someday. I did figure that I'd get here eventually, eternity and all that."

"Boring. Go places for the sake of going. That's what I do."

"I'm not exactly at liberty to go wherever I like, whenever I like," you say. Your left hand taps lightly on her stomach, some little ditty Beethoven whipped up for you in his spare time. "Although if I were, this would be my first choice."

"Really?" She crosses her legs. "I sold you quick, didn't I?"

"You're a persuasive person."

"I should be." She smiles toothily. "I'm almost always right."

"That is neither what I said nor even remotely true."

"Hmm." She makes a noncommittal noise that you take to mean her indifference on the matter, and changes the subject. "It's where I met my mom."

"Here?"

A nod. "Just around those trees." A lazy fluttering of her fingers in the general direction of the foliage closest to the water. "Tall woman. Didn't take shit. Looked like she was gonna kill somebody every time they pissed her off. God, she was cool."

"I didn't know daemons had mothers," you say, mildly surprised. Roxy so rarely  _tell_ _s_ you anything about herself, aside from the light, trivial things; you could list the evolution of her favorite color by decades dating back to 1800, but you don't know the first thing about daemons.

"Not all of us. And not all of us get all up and paternal with our creators, too, because they're not always as cool and badass as mine. Some are made by accident." She flicks down her sunglasses and you catch a glimpse of scintillating pink, near-white in the sun. "You need, uh, bit of blood, pinch of animal sacrifice, like two tablespoons of viscera and whatnot, and, like, a whole _bunch_ of eldritch majjyks." She waggles her fingers to mimic the aforementioned 'eldritch majjyks.'

"How many daemons are there?"

"Depends. Time, place, how many people are getting their sin on. Can't live if you can't eat."

"I understand." You finish Beethoven and rest your hand on the warm stretch of her stomach. "Tell me about your mother."

"Uh, man. What's to tell? She was badass, like I said. Didn't get to know her much - bit the dust a couple of years after magicking me into existence. Wasn't really big on sharing information. Don't know where she came from, why she needed a daemon so badly, anything. Figured she'd tell me in time, but she didn't - she just up and left on me, went the way of the dodo after getting in a fight with some other sorceress. Left me all her shit and a note telling me not to fuck up. Guess she had the decency to look out for me, I mean, there's a lot of people - daemons, mind - that don't ever get to meet their maker at all, just pop into the world because some asshole accidentally threw the right ingredients together. She was, uh, something." She rips up a handful of grass and begins shredding it.

"She sounds lovely," you offer.

"Oh, yeah. She was. But, y'know, she was kind of - distant, you know, like a business partner, or something, and it wasn't her fault, because I don't think anybody ever really knows what to do with a kid they bring into this world, 'specially if that kid's a primordial force of Hell, but I guess. I don't know. Haven't much gotten involved with humans, after that." She tilts her chin up to sun her neck. "You get me? Humans are - they're beautiful, man, but God, they're there and they're gone in the same second."

"I get you."

"You ever gotten involved with a human?" Her eyes search yours; you turn away, made uncomfortable by her acute curiosity.

"No."

"You ever gotten _involved_ with a human?" Her eyebrows wiggle furiously and you swat her shoulder.

"No!"

"Never?"

"Never, Roxy." A flush warms your cheeks, but you blame it entirely on the sun.

"What, then? Face like yours, there's no way you haven't done the dirty at least once - and you're all weird Godly siblings in the Host, right, so you couldn't have done it with another pair of wings - either you did the nasty with a daemon, or I'm missing an entire subcategory of sexable being, which would be, like, a  _huge_ drag."

"You - well, you could be, I certainly wouldn't know -"

"You're avoiding the subject." She tips back her glasses again and flutters her eyelashes at you entreatingly. "C'mon! Humor me." Your stomach does a neat little backflip. Traitorous.

"I - fine!" You swallow. "If I tell you, will you stop teasing me about it?"

"Absolutely." She rolls onto her stomach and props herself up on her elbows, watching you, enrapt. "Do tell."

You pluck a dandelion from the grass and pick the seeds from its bulb one by one. "It was in 1767," you say. "A girl on the Spanish peninsula. Human. Needless to say. I assume, at least - I didn't exactly interrogate her as to the nature of her - regardless, I had the best possible evidence that she was human. She was, ah, around my age, and she was nervous about being married - she was of the wrong nature to be married in that time, anyway. She had rather little interest in men. And she was awfully nervous about it, her wedding; I thought to help her. And, ah. I did." As an afterthought, you add, "She was very grateful."

"Bet she was."

You pinch Roxy's arm, hard enough to draw flush to the skin. "Don't be crude. She was a sweet girl, and she didn't deserve the time period she was born in."

"Aight, aight, lemme go. Hardass."

"You're such a baby."

"Nngh. You're mean to me." She lets the last of the shredded grass fall through her fingers. "What happened to her?"

"As I said. She was married. Didn't have to live with it, long; died in childbirth ten months past her wedding day. It wasn't - uncommon, in that time."

Roxy is quiet, for a time, and then says, "Doesn't mean it doesn't suck, though."

"You're right." You watch the movement of ships across the bay. "It did suck."

She makes a noise of assent. "Was it yours?"

"What?"

"The baby."

"Angels can't have children. Not to mention that there weren't DNA tests then, so nobody could verify if a child was the product of a legal union -"

"Hold that thought, and then back that thought up. Back it right up to the train station like a haywire locomotive with a drunk driver - you can't have kids?"

"No." You scratch your head. "Really, I thought you'd have surmised that - you've never seen a half-angel, have you?"

"There's a lot of shit I haven't seen that still exists, Janey. Sue me for giving your little hybrid human babies the benefit of the doubt."

"The consequences would be disastrous. Human children with heavenly powers, no plausible explanation; there'd be chaos. We'd have three dozen Second Comings by now."

"Bet you gave  _her_ three dozen Second Comings."

You slap her shoulder. "That's distasteful." You're laughing a little bit anyways.

" _You're_ distasteful."

"You're being silly."

"When aren't I?" She grins and sprawls spread-eagle on the hill, her body sinking into the grass like she grew from the earth just that morning.

* * *

_Saint Petersburg,1963. Rio de Janeiro, 1964. Johannesburg, 1965._

You take her to church as a joke once, which she, as you predicted, finds unaccountably hilarious. The two of you share a pew near the front of the church and she wears a wide-brimmed hat the puts all the other churchgoing ladies' to shame, and goes up to talk to the pastor afterward. She's unsuspectedly excited about the whole thing, clinging to your arm and buying a pocket bible in the gift shop before going to Mass. Periodically during the speech she'll lean over and whisper questions in your ear, a "What does that mean?" or, "Is that true?" or, "Is that what it actually says?" You haven't touched Scripture in years, and to be frank you've forgotten all but the most interesting passages.

The sermon isn't anything inspiring - it doesn't persuade you to pick up a Testament, for example - but Roxy seems to enjoy it. The parts about Hell amuse her in some dark kind of way; a mention of brimstone sets her off into hysterics. She catches a few dirty looks, for that, but you can't bring yourself to silence her; it's a purer enjoyment, you think, than she gains from most things. 

When the pastor is hosting confessions, she leans over and murmurs in your ear, "If you give me fifty dollars I'll go up there and come out."

You burst into a coughing fit to hide your laughter. "As a daemon? In front of everybody?"

"Well, I was gonna go with, like, gay, but sure, whatever. It's your money."

"I don't have fifty dollars."

"Damn. Another time."

The people around you shoot you ugly looks, but you can't be bothered. The pastor gets a good few things wrong about angels, anyway, so you don't feel very shaken up about interfering with the other patrons' enjoyment of the sermon.

In all honesty, you pick up very little from the experience except that Roxy is eternally amused by irony and like forms of humor, and that she's a poor companion to take into a church. From the sermon itself, you pick up almost nothing, except a few stray lines that the pastor shouts right before the end of Mass. It catches your ear as an echo of something you'd heard a long time ago, you think from one of your friends in the Host, and it strikes you as odd that a human pastor would bother to reiterate it.

_ How you are fallen from heaven,  O Day Star, son of Dawn. _

* * *

The story of the Morningstar goes thus:

They were the best of angels, when they were alive; born from stardust and Grace, they bled gold and sang symphonies with one breath. They were tall as a skyscraper and the breadth of their wings stretched from the eastern horizon to the west, a net of sky long enough to shield the world from the universe outside it. They were beloved by the Host and they loved humanity like no one else. Their love was a blessing to humanity and they lived it with every day more on the earth.  

After years dedicated in service of the Host, the Morningstar was persuaded to remain on earth and help their humans always; and so they did, and permanently left the care of the Host. They walked among humans and served them as one of them, instead of an ambassador from the skies, and they loved humanity then, thoroughly, too. They were beloved then as they were among the Host; and the angels missed their sibling, but did not object, for the Morningstar was living well and happily.

And then they died, and their soul tried to ascend again to Heaven. But the Employer barred them entry; too long absent from their post, they were no longer welcome in the land of Heavenly bodies. The Morningstar fell instead to that place Below, burning, as their Fall tore up the sky. Their brethren mourned them. They strung a bright star in the far corner of the evening sky as both a tribute to their Fallen beloved and a sigil that, some better day, might lead them back home.

It's not true, so far as you know. It was only a story told to fledglings to warn them from the perils of straying from duty, and, you suppose, as means of entertainment. It's also the only legend that any of you were told about the Host; it never struck you as odd, until of late, that the only piece of mythos about your family was a story about one leaving it. 

* * *

You sit in the park in Canada until most people are gone, and the night has spread itself across the sky -

"Like a patient etherized on a table," you say, and she looks at you quizzically.

"I read it in a book."

"Oh. It's pretty."

"I thought it was fitting."

You both lay back and point out constellations to each other idly. She reaches up a hand and points to a gold star lingering on the eastern horizon and says, "That's you," and you're lost on her.

* * *

**JUNE 27, 1966**

Las Vegas shines like a new penny night and day, fake as plastic diamond and bright as broken glass in the sun. The only distinction between times of day is the color of the sky - the lighting is the same - and the heat, which at noon burns up to 110 and in the evening sinks to a comfortable 72. You had expected to hate the city, the poster child for sinful behavior that it is, but you find yourself enjoying your time there, perhaps because the people there bleed joy at the sheer experience of being alive. It's the kind of place you could stay in for years and not realize you’ve been there half an hour. The kind of place you’d start eternity if you didn’t want to notice it passing by.

Jake’s sweat through three pairs of shirts and is working on a fourth. He stops every twenty minutes to reapply copious amounts of sunscreen, to your great amusement, and has downed six bottles of water. In between stops outside he complains bitterly about the heat, which you attempt to abate by taking frequent breaks. All the same, you make a point of reminding him that it was his idea to take a walk outside in the desert to begin with.  

You're both supposed to be en route to Texas for an assignment in Dallas, but your flight was delayed and subsequently cancelled because of technical difficulties, stranding you in Sin City for an indeterminate time. You had argued to find a hotel near the airport and book the soonest available replacement, but Jake, being incorrigibly adventurous, persuaded you to take a spin around the city before leaving. You don't _agree_ so much as you failed to argue bitterly enough to dissuade him from dragging you headfirst into downtown Las Vegas.

"Jane, let's take a break," he complains. "I'm burning to a crisp, here, and I don't mean to be a sourpuss about things, but you can't be as comfortable as you pretend to be."

Your arm is looped through his and you're piloting his limpid, sunstroke-ridden body at this point. "We've taken three stops in the past hour, Jake, for goodness' sake."

"Let's take another!"

You roll your eyes and take a left. The Fremont rises from the earth in story after towering story, neon blazing even in the middle of the day. People stream in and out of its doors like fish from the mouth of a whale, and it practically smells of money. "Only to stop you complaining, dear heart."

"Whatever gets the job done, Jane, love."

There's a restaurant in the lowest floor of the hotel that only takes a little bit of persuasion to find a table in. As with most hotels in the area, the lower floor is dominated by the sunken casino that draws most of the hotel's business. You order a glass of lemonade and Jake orders some ungodly amount of food and the two of you watch the gamblers spin and spy and shout at each other in delirious and frequently drunken peace. You can almost feel the sins crawling on your back, but it's a distant irritation, not any real impediment to your welfare. It doesn't bother you so much as it intrigues you - you imagine that daemons must be swarming the place.

"Vegas' got to be half-daemon by now," Jake remarks, giving voice to your stray train of thought. "Look at all that going on."

"I'd prefer not to."

"It's interesting." 

"In a macabre sort of way, I guess." You watch Jake's eyes light up as the waitress brings him a sandwich that would take you three days to eat. "Good God. You're not eating all of that."

"A challenge?"

"No, an order." You steal a french fry. "If you finish that, I'm taking you to the nearest hospital to have your stomach pumped."

"It's not  _poison."_ He waits for the waitress to leave, and then adds, "As if a hospital could do anything you couldn't."

"Mm. True." 

You let your gaze roam across the casino floor while he eats his lunch. For the most part, you can't pick out any one face above the others; they're a bunch of sweaty, undistinguished gamblers, most in suits or expensive dresses, a couple in casual clothes throwing away petty cash on the small-game machines, a few wearing visors and hunching over their cards with desperation written in the curve of their back. You're about to turn back when a pair of blondes at the edge of the floor catch your eye; a man and a woman, the woman wearing a slinky evening gown at one o'clock in the afternoon, and the man, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a tuxedo print. They have precisely the same white-gold hair, fluffy and elaborately styled.

"Jane?"

It takes the note of Jake's confusion to make you realize that you've half risen from your chair, craning your neck, and are attracting the attention of other customers. You sit back down quickly, fighting the flush on your cheeks.

"Sorry," you say abruptly. "Thought I saw someone."

"I know you did." You whip around to look at him; he's studiously watching his sandwich.

"What do you mean?"

"Is Roxy here?" He lifts his eyes and they burn you, clear, quiet green that seem to gaze right through your skull and into the open pages of your thoughts. Jake knows you better than you know yourself; you've lived beside him so long that sometimes you're not sure where your mind ends and his begins. 

"No," you say, then, "Yes," and finally, "I'm not sure."

He nods meaningfully to the casino floor. "Out there?"

"I think so."

"Are you going to go looking for her?" 

You hesitate. He takes it as an answer and nods knowingly.

"No - Jake, listen. It might have been, but I'm sure I'll catch her around again anyway - let's just have lunch." You scoot your chair up as close to the table as you can. "Let's just have lunch."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

You count back. "I - fifty-five? No, this January. Yes, this January - but what's five months, I can wait five more."

"How many times have you run into her?"

"I don't know." It's an honest answer. You tried keeping a diary of it, at one point, but it was lost in a shipwreck in '53, and you'd have run out of pages and lost it later, anyway. Angels don't do well with personal effects. "Dozens? Hundreds. At any rate, it's just one more reason that I won't go running off the instant I catch sight of her. Don't worry." You plaster a convincing smile on your face and you should know by now that you can't fool Jake English, any more than you can lie to the Employer Themself.

He frowns. "Why not?"

"Why not? Jake, I - I don't understand you. Not one bit."

He shrugs. "We're already late."

You shoot a glance to the edge of the floor. She - or the woman you thought was her, anyway - is already gone, but you suspect she'll be hanging around the hotel. The Fremont is easily the biggest hotel on the block. Roxy wouldn't settle for anything less.

"We take five minutes," you tell him. "Give me five minutes, I'll just run out and say hello."

A smile curls the corner of his mouth. "Why be stringent? Take ten."

"Now you're just being ridiculous," you tease him, and he stands up, casting a mournful glance at his sandwich.

"It was going to be such a good meal."

"We get on a plane _the instant_ I've seen her," you promise him, already tugging him away from the table. "I mean it. No more dallying - Dallas, tomorrow, you hear me, we're already a pinch late -"

His lips thin and he shrugs, acquiescing, although you know that there's a dissent lingering on the tip of his tongue. You're grateful that he says nothing. Jake, sometimes, is stunningly perceptive.

* * *

The receptionist is unimpressed at your demand to know the room number of any and all inhabitants of the Fremont named Roxy, and in fact flatly refuses you, which comes perilously close to ending your hunt then and there. Jake, however, is far more lenient with his powers, and so with a wave of his hand manages to " _persuade"_ her - his words, not yours - to share the list. You realize belatedly that it's fortunate there only happens to be one Roxy staying at the hotel currently, because you never knew her to have a last name, or at least, not a constant one. Instead, you get her number scribbled down on a piece of paper and haul Jake toward the elevator, too-conscious both of how little time you have before your tardiness becomes an issue and how frivolous this excursion is. Its frivolity never once manages to put a dent in your excitement.

It's only been five months - it's ridiculous; you shouldn't be this excited to see her, but like any good addict, the acceptable time lapse between hits shrinks every time. You've got things you want to tell her, and you're afraid you'll forget them if you don't meet her again soon.

_You wouldn't be in this situation if the Employer didn't intend you to be, would you? It's Serendipity, pure Serendipity, you're meant to talk to her - maybe there's something important about it._

This thought is enough to let you lock away your doubts and enjoy the buzz of excitement as you ride the elevator to the top floor. The apartments on the higher levels are luxurious - no one-room hotel domiciles, but sprawling complexes for gamblers who are very, very good at what they do. The hallway alone is hardwood with gold mirrors hung at intervals, scarlet wallpaper, doors fashioned like the entrance to castles. You find Roxy's room and dither in the entrance - on the off chance that it isn't hers, that it's a different Roxy, that she might be in the middle of something - when Jake, with an exasperated noise, hauls you out of the way and knocks on the door himself.

It's almost a full minute before the locks click and it swings open. The person who answers isn't Roxy; he's a tall, wiry man with styled blond hair and triangular sunglasses, the points stabbing out on either side of his face. You think it looks a tad ridiculous.  

He's silent, staring at you and waiting for you to introduce yourself. It's not hostile, exactly, but lacks warmth.

"Hi," you say, at length. "I'm Jane Crocker."

His head tilts marginally, and he opens the door an inch further - not far enough to invite you in, but an indication of interest.

"A friend of Roxy's," you add. "Do you know her?" 

His laugh rings clinical in your ears. "Pretty well."

Jake, who never does well with new people and has been fidgeting abominably for the whole encounter, finally bursts. "Well, say, then," he exclaims crossly, "why don't you either let us in, or give us a way to contact her, hey? Because you're not being a dadblasted ounce of help, standing around and staring us like a couple of variety attractions!"

The man in the door regards Jake with newfound interest. "Sure, bro," he agrees easily, and steps aside to let you in.

Jake's expression belies profound surprise. "Uh, thanks," he says. "Ah - good form," and you take his elbow to catalyze him into moving.

The inside of the apartment is as nice as the hallway. You guess from a first glance that there are at least four or five rooms, the first of which being a parlor area that one of the occupants has filled with a collection of magazines, board games, and hand-sewn felt puppets with oddly shaped proboscises scattered over the furniture. A window looks over the street, and there are a collection of potted plants there; it looks like a tornado tore through it, but in a natural way. Thoroughly Roxy.

She wanders through a door to the side while you're busy admiring the view, wearing nothing but a towel. "Di-Stri, somebody drop off - Jane!" She hikes up the towel and launches herself into your arms. You receive her gladly. Her skin is still hot from the shower, and her hair drizzles onto your clothes, although you'd be lying if you said it bothered you.

"How'd you get here? How did you find - never mind, probably used some kind of sick heavenly majjyks, don't really care - Jesus, it's been too long, Crocker, where the Hell did you _go_ \- oh my God, we're going to have the  _best_ time now that you're here, and I always wanted you to meet - Jake!" Upon seeing your partner, she performs a highly acrobatic maneuver which involves launching herself from your arms into Jake's who stumbles back under the weight of her but wraps her in a bear hug when he gets a grip on her slippery skin. 

"Good to see you, Rox - haven't caught up with you in ages!"

"I haven't seen you in literal  _centuries,_ you  _asshole,_  you promised you'd stay in touch - teach me to trust ladykillers, that's what I get, isn't it, and oh my God, I swear you're bigger than the last time I saw you -"

"I haven't grown an inch!"

"Lies. Lies and hearsay, and oh, man, I've just left out Di-Stri, haven't I?" She detaches herself, kicking her feet until Jake lets her down and she can stand once more. "Uh, sorry about that, D."

"Not a problem." He's unflappable, it seems, although to be fair, it's hard to emote when your eyes are locked behind a pair of sunglasses.

"Jane," she says, a little breathlessly, "this is Dirk."

"The great Dirk Strider?" You don't know why you're surprised, honestly, because nothing about Roxy or the company she keeps is predictable; but from what she'd told you about him, you'd imagined someone a little more impressive. Certainly not a boy with weird shades and greased hair, and limbs so thin you could snap them with two fingers. 

You do your best to be polite nonetheless. "I'm honored." You offer your right hand. "Roxy has told me about your adventures, and you make quite the mythic figure, Mr. Strider."

He grabs it, shakes it loosely, and lets go before you can even get a good grip. "Uh, yeah. She's told me about you, too." He doesn't elaborate. 

"Dirk," Roxy objects. His lips tighten and he gives her an unreasonable look; she seems to understand, because she sighs and claps Jake on the back. "And this is Jake English, beefcake extraordinaire."

"You're too kind, really, Roxy, I'm not half worth -"

"Nice to meet you, bro," Dirk says, and shakes Jake's hand with the same limp haste that he treated yours. "I was starting to think Roxy made you guys up."

"I've never lied, once, in my life," she says haughtily, and hikes up her towel. "And I need to get dressed. Jake, don't, like, exorcise him or anything while I'm gone."

"I wouldn't dream of exorcising a friend!"

She disappears through the side door, and then, immediately, pops her head back out. "Jane," she insists, beckoning. "C'mon."

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't - all right."

You follow her into her bedroom, carrying what you would swear to be the most vivid blush of your life on your cheeks. You try to pretend that Jake and Dirk aren't both staring after your back and thinking incredibly indecent thoughts that you will have to thoroughly eviscerate from their cerebral cortices at the first available opportunity.

Roxy's bedroom is occupied mostly by a queen-sized bed and a small desk shoved up against the corner, right under another small window. It's propped open and the screen's been removed, so you have a direct view down onto the street, approximately thirteen stories below. You stare down and it would have made you dizzy, if you hadn't forgotten how to be afraid of heights after the third or fourth time you jumped off a building and flew.

"Don't jump," Roxy calls, and you flinch. You lean back from the window and watch her silhouette shimmy behind the changing screen. The towel drops and she reaches for a slinky black dress draped over the top of the screen. No bra. The last bit you notice and then immediately do your best to forget.

"I wasn't going to." You sit down on the bed, facing away from her. "So. That's Dirk."

"Er, yeah, more or less." Her head sticks out from behind the screen to grimace apologetically. "Sorry. He gets more lively after you get to know him, I swear he does."

"I believe you. He's still not what I imagined, somehow."

"Well, no. I may have talked him up a bit, to be honest, but I never said anything that wasn't true. He really did build a robot in a suit of armor."

"I'd buy that."You flip through the magazines on her bedside table idly. "Where did he get the sunglasses?"  One of the magazines is a lingerie catalogue. You stop flipping through the magazines on her bedside table.

"Oh, ha. He picked those up a coupla years ago in this weird-ass convenience shop somewhere in Reno. Aren't they hilarious? He thinks they make him look  _cool."_ She snorts, as if the mere idea is deeply hilarious. "Dork Strider, at your service."

"Indeed." You cross your legs. "How did you meet him?"

She hesitates, and then steps out from behind the screen. The dress hugs her down to mid-thigh, and the neckline plunges as far as possible without risking charges of public indecency. It's more like another layer of skin than an actual garment, and the pair of five-inch heels she pulls from a drawer make your heart palpitate just looking at them. "Uh, it was a while ago. Like, hundreds of years, a while ago."

"I figured." You lace your fingers together and wait. She'll tell you.

"I was like, ten at the time. Which, you know, I was already self-sufficient and shit, but you know how it is. Kids need help, right, wherever they are. D-Stride's only like, a few years older than me, so running into someone as young as me was goddamn  _miraculous_ at that time. Didn't have networking or anything, so your chances of finding another one of your  _kind,_ even, were, between, like, jack-shit and zero percent." She steps into the heels and takes a few practice paces. "Figured we'd band together to have less of a chance of, y'know. Dying." Satisfied with her heels, she settles herself before the three-paneled mirror at her desk and plunges her hands into the mess of cosmetics sprawled there. "Guess we just stuck together, after that." Her smile is hasty and seems to be more for your benefit than borne of any real joy. "Can't imagine living without him, now. Keeps me safe. Keeps me sane."

"And you do the same for him, I expect."

"Oh, he says so, but he's probably bullshitting. I think he keeps me around for entertainment value." She pops open an eyeliner wand and leans in close enough to kiss the mirror. "And, I mean, points for taste, there."

"What kind of daemon is he?"

"Pride." She bungles the line, wipes it off, starts over. "Capital-P Pride, although I didn't need to tell you that."

"I expect you've both been doing well in Vegas, then."

"Haven't had a hungry night so long as I've been here." She beams. "It's great business. And everyone's too drunk to notice a little feeding." She tosses down the eyeliner in frustration. "God, I can't do eyeliner on a wet eye. Honestly,  _fuck_ that."

You rise and reach out a hand. "Let me."

Hesitantly, she hands you the eyeliner, and you turn her chin to face you. There's a faint smear of grey-green around her left eye from where she wiped away her previous attempts; you reach for a tissue to dab it away. It occurs to you that this is a Very Bad Idea, and that being this close to her is unlikely to dissuade you of any dangerous obsessions you may or may not have been harboring with regards to her face, but you've already got the eyeliner pen in hand, haven't you, and it's altogether absolutely too late to stop now. 

You put a hand under her chin and tip it up to face you. You get one leg on either side of her chair and her face is close enough to warm yours with her breath - the caking powder over her forehead is visible to you in exquisite detail. Her eyes hold brown for a few seconds, and then fade to magenta as they close.

You hold your breath and draw a long, clean line from the inner corner of the eye to a point just out side it, tracing the line twice, and then cap the pen and stand back. A thick layer of black rims her eyelash and when she opens her eyes and blinks, she smiles in the mirror.

"Thanks, Janey. You're a lifesaver."

"Anytime," you say, your breath a tad unevenly. "Absolutely anytime."

"Can I do you?" She waves the wand in your general direction and your throat constricts. "You'd look great with a bit of makeup. I mean, you look great, anyway, obviously, didn't mean to imply that you didn't - just wanted to share the love, you know, sister, since you've - you know what, any time you wanna tell me to shut up, that'd be great."

"Shut up, Roxy."

"Thanks." She picks up a black lipstick and puckers. The color matches her dress and stands out against the ochre of her skin. She catches you staring and grins, offering you the lipstick tube. "Seriously, though."

"No, thanks."

"Suit yourself." She goes back to putting the finishing touches on her face. 

"So you're going to stay here, then," you say, not sure where you're going with this line of question and rather alarmed that you've started it at all. "I mean, because it's easy food."

Her lips twist and she sets down her makeup. "Dunno," she says at last. "Depends on where the wind blows."

"But it's easy living here, isn't it?"

Her laugh is precise and obviously fake. "Yeah, but y'know, that's not what makes a home, Janey. Easy living never did entertain anybody."

"You can't say you're not _entertained_  in the city of Las Vegas."

"Oh, I am, babe, for now. And I will be, for another month, at least." She shrugs. "After that, though. Who knows?"

"You don't?"

"Knowing it takes the fun out of living it." She claps her hands. "But, darling, that's all the future. The shit I'm interested in is happening  _now._ Right here, right this instant, in this city. It's happening to you and me and I'm about to make it happen a little louder." She taps you on the nose adoringly. "I'm not gonna be here forever, so I've got to do all the living right now."

"What do you mean?"

"Go put on something hot," she says. "We're going out."

* * *

You've known Jake English for all near-two hundred years of his existence. You and he were basically conjoined from creation, taking missions together before you even knew the full breadth of your own power. You figured out who you were at the same time as you figured out who Jake English was. You don't always get along, but you're always  _together,_ on some level, in that you could wake up in his body and know exactly what to do. You know he'll never stay mad at you for anything and he knows you've never been really mad at him for anything. You've seen him in every one of his forms, been beside him for almost every assignment; you think it's safe to say that there isn't a single thing to know about Jake English that you don't. And in all the time that you've known him, throughout every mark and mission he's ever taken, he has only been drunk twice in his life.

The first time was during Prohibition in Long Island, at the party of some obscenely rich bureaucrat, where people kept pushing glasses of what he was assured was strictly non-alcoholic punch into his hands, and he didn't have the nerve to turn them down. By the end of the evening he'd felt up the bureaucrat's wife and was attempting to climb to a second-story window from the outside on a dare. He fell, and you dragged him out of the party by the ear. After that, he didn't touch the stuff, to your eternal relief and mild amusement.

The second time is in 1966 on the Las Vegas strip.

* * *

Roxy is screaming in your ear as you sail down the desert highway in an open-topped car that you're pretty sure she and Dirk stole. Jake is chattering nonsense ecstatically in the backseat with Dirk, who's probably buzzed as well, although Dirk's version of 'drunk' is 'smiles a little bit more and says more than three words at once.' To be more precise, drunk Dirk goes from three to three hundred words at once, depending on how he's feeling, but it's a damn sight more inviting to talk to than the person you'd met earlier in the afternoon, so you can't be bothered to tell him off.

Somewhere around the third bar you'd gone to, Roxy had persuaded you to take a sip of whatever was in your drink, and it wasn't like you'd never had alcohol before, but Roxy might has well have been drinking gasoline - it took three more for you to agree to order your own drink, and then another, and then another, and you knew you had better sense than this, but better sense walked out the door in exasperation three martinis ago and you're frankly not sad to see it go. Be that as it may, you're still easily the most sober out of all of them, so you insisted on driving when Roxy leapt into the car she claimed was hers and demanded the four of you go joyriding, because apparently the roads outside of Vegas are most beautiful after dark.

Roxy leans over and hangs on your arm while you drive, which is a little distracting, but you're far enough out that there's nobody else on the road anyway. "Babe," she says. "Babe.  _Babe."_

"Yes, Roxy?"

"This is, like, the best moment of my fuckin'  _life."_ Her grin is free and childlike and dizzying. "All of y'all - here - I ain't never had all of y'all in the same place together once, and now I've got  _all_ of you, and you're all here, like, being with me, and shit, and I'm feeling so fucking  _with_ you, right now, Jane - you get me? I feel so fucking  _with_ you, n' shit -"

"Yeah," you say, distantly aware that she isn't making a lick of sense, but you  _understand,_ somehow, perhaps because it's the same poison running through your veins. "Yeah, Roxy, I understand."

"Good. Because you're my - I mean, 'cept for Dirk, and he doesn't count because he's baaaaasically my blood bro, you know that - right - Dirk -" - Dirk grunts, affirming - "- right, yeah, so he doesn't even count - you're my best friend, you know that? Only person what likes me, you know that? Like, Jake is great - no offense, Jake - but you're my best friend, you, like, care and shit, and I don't even have a fucking clue how you care so fucking much. How do you care! Tell me how you do it! Because holy shit, Jane, like, that's the maddest shit I've ever fucking seen." Her head lolls on the headrest. "The maddest shit in the world, babe."

You suppose it's redundant to note that Roxy gets more profane when she's drunk. "I don't mean to," you say honestly. "Mostly never mean to."

"Eyes on the road," Jake shrieks, and you barely avoid swerving the car, only to realize that there's been no change in driving conditions.

"Shut up, Jake!" Roxy reaches back and ruffles your hear. "But also, I love you."

"I love you, too, Roxy."

"God, you're affectionate when you're plastered!" She giggles. "Jane, did you realize your boyfriend is a flirt when he's plastered?"

"He's not my boyfriend. I've told you that, I've told you that multiple times -"

"Sure, sure, yeah, I'm only teasing. Dirk, you good?"

"Good is meaningless. Satisfaction is derived from the abatement of existential torment and the removal of one's capacity to analyze uncomfortable situations and consequently deduce that which is unfortunate."

"He's good," she tells you. 

"Oh," you say. "Is he - is that what he always says? When he's good?"

"Dunno. Roll of the dice, with this guy, innit? Dirk, say something clever."

"I'm not a fucking circus act."

She finds this unaccountably funny and bursts into laughter. "Listen to this guy!"

You take a left and pull off the highway, feeling that it's better for everyone's health if you get off the main roads. "Does anybody need to use the bathroom?"

"Never," Roxy swears. "Never - all of you assholes, we're staying in this car for the rest of our goddamn lives. For the rest of our natural god-damned lives!" Her laugh is thrilling and hysterical.

"That's logistically impossible," Dirk says, and she swats a hand at him.

"Don't be a fucking killjoy, Strider."

"Sorry, Rox."

She laughs again. It's music.  

* * *

You lean against the hood of her car while Jake and Dirk are inside buying snacks. You lost your watch somewhere on a back road when Roxy made it her mission to divest you of anything that wasn't absolutely essential clothing, but by your guess it's around two or three. A sliver of the moon hangs on the horizon and she's sitting up on the hood, her knee bumping against your waist. She's quieted down a little - you all have, to some extent, and Jake you think is almost sober again - but she's still riding the high. Now and then she'll belt out a long stretch of some lost opera that you've never heard. Alternately, she clamps her lips shut and refuses to make a sound for minutes at a time. You settle into the comfortable post-drunk feeling where you're not quite lucid but nothing is so dreamy as it was before.

"You know," she says, "I've never seen you drunk."

"I almost never am." The car is warm from being pushed to its limits all night. You splay your hands on the headlight to warm them.

"Well, it's a good look on you."

"I doubt it's a good look on anybody."

"Fair." She threads her fingers through your hair and tugs at it, lightly, as if she's trying to figure out how much pull it takes to break. "Still. You were great."

"Was I?"

"Oh, hell yeah. I haven't had that much fun since - fuck, I don't know. Never."

"Well, thank you," you say, awkwardly. "You're, ah - likewise."

"You say that a lot," she mumbles, flopping backwards. "Likewise, likewise, likewise. What do you really think?"

"I don't - say things," you manage. "I don't say things flatly, or - you know, what does it matter? You know what I mean, that's what matters."

"What do I know you mean?" She looks at you down her nose.

"I mean you're rather - you're nice," you say. Your heart is using your ribcage as a ladder to your throat. "And, ah - you're my best friend, too. Jake notwithstanding."

"Yeah, obviously." She scoots up and molds herself around you. Her head falls into place on your shoulder, a familiar position, comfortable and daring despite its familiarity. "You ever think about what you'd do if you didn't have your job, Janey?"

You sigh and let her tug at your hair without protest. "You ever think about what you'd do if you had one?"

"I wouldn't live for it, that's for damn sure. Like, hell, Janey, you ain't alive if you're not working. Never seen you as happy as when you're doing good." She pulls a little harder. "How'd you get like that? All wound up at the idea of helpin' someone else. How are you so fucking -" She chokes on the thought and coughs, giving you time to contemplate your answer.

"Never learned otherwise," you offer, and it obviously doesn't satisfy her, but her hands lessen around your hair. "And I'm happy when I'm with you."

"Not as happy."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" She's probably mussing your hair beyond all repair but it feels wonderful, so you don't care. "Huh."

"I like you."

"I like you, too," she says. "Never made a better decision, jumping off that balcony."

"You scared the wits out of me."

"Meant to. Meant to give you a little fun. Break a bone or two, have a laugh at the look on your face, go about with my business. Didn't expect you to jump  _after_ me." She presses the heel of her palm to her forehead and grimaces like she's trying to grind an ache out of her skull. "Nobody ever would've - nobody in their right mind woulda  _jumped_."

"I did. I would again."

"Anywhere?" Her lip quirks. "If I jumped off the top of the Chrysler?"

"I'd prefer you didn't do it intentionally," you quip, "but I'd still go after you."

"Jesus fuck," she breathes, staring at you like you've got the meaning of life tattooed on your face in her color and she's only just noticed it. "Would you?"

"Sure." You're bemused at her incredulity; it's a simple question.

"Huh." The plain is dark and empty. Vegas twinkles distantly, but it's far away. Everything seems terribly private and secret, and if you remember anything from this decade, you think, it'll be this.

"I feel so with you," she says, and then, "I feel so fucking  _with_ you, Janey," and then she leans forward and she's kissing you.

Lightning breaks the sky.

* * *

You wake up on Roxy's couch as sunlight beats relentlessly through the window over your head.

Your mouth tastes like ash and salt and plastic, and you grope blindly for your glasses. You find them dangling precariously from the window and you have to sit up to get them, which is a colossally bad idea, because it drives home the sensation of someone trying to hammer a steel pike through your skull. Your body feels nothing but sore, all over, and even your clothes settle uncomfortably around you in the way day-old clothes do. You feel like grease and heat. You feel, frankly, awful.

With your glasses on you can survey the scene. Jake is curled on the carpet in front of you, and Dirk in the armchair nearest him; both of them are missing articles of clothing but have kept their pants on. Small blessings. Roxy is nowhere to be found, but you can guess that she's in her bedroom, and the only one of you to get a decent night's rest, likely.

The separation of your sleeping arrangements also informs you that none of you slept together, which is another small blessing that you don't have the energy to utter thanks for because it feels like someone's trying to  _dissemble your brain with their fingers._

You groan and stumble into the bathroom for some water. There's black lipstick smeared across your face and lines of it sneaking down under your collar, and you don't dare check how far they go; there'll be time for that later, after you've sorted out the hangover. After a drink and a quick wash, you feel marginally better - or at least, enough so to check the time.

_12:52._

You've missed your flight.

You dash back into the living room and deal Jake a swift kick to the stomach, not to hurt him but to wake him up. He jumps to his feet, his glasses skittering across the floor, and lets out a bleary yell before realizing who you are; then, tilting his head, he says, "Glasses," and you hand them to him wordlessly.

"Flight," you say.

"Fuck," he says.

"Yeah." You sit down on the table and cradle your head in your hands. "There's probably one this afternoon. We can catch it if we run."

"I - yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea, Jane, right-o." He sits next to you gingerly, puts a hand on your knee. "It's not - it's not your fault -"

"We're going to be late. We're going to be so  _fucking_ late, Jake, and if the Host doesn't notice I'll count it as an act of the Employer."

He says "Maybe they won't," in a tone that suggests he doesn't really believe it. 

"Don't kid yourself." You scrub at your eyes and try not to cry. "We'll - what if we've failed them? What if they're, what if they're not -"

"We would've heard."

"I can't believe I'm so stupid." You want to fling yourself out a window, except you can goddamn fly. "I can't believe I let myself - I let myself get drunk, and _joyride_ with a pair of _daemons_ in _Las Vegas_!"

"It wasn't as bad as it sounds. You're dressing it up to sound worse than it is."

"Tell that to the Employer!" You're hysterical. It's a miracle you haven't woken either of the others. You don't care. "Tell that to everybody who  _hasn't_ gotten drunk and joyridden with a pair of daemons - I might have slept with her, too, like that isn't going to get me odd looks for the next couple centuries -"

"Whoa -"

"And I'm so  _stupid,_ thinking that I could keep a level head around her -"

"Jane." His voice is sharp and grounding. "You're all right. Quiet."

"Okay," you say, shaky, then, "okay, okay, okay," and by and by he hugs you, and you let yourself be hugged. Eventually your breathing evens out and you stand up.

"We should go."

He nods. "Say goodbye to Roxy for me." 

"Let's just go." 

He puts a hand on your chest to keep you from leaving and glares at you. "You go and say goodbye to your friend - ah - paramour - you go and say goodbye to your daemon, Jane, or - or thunderations, I won't leave until she wakes up and we'll be even later."

"You're being silly!"

"And you're avoiding the subject. I - you're only going to screw the pooch awfully if you don't say anything now!"

"We've probably woken them up anyway, with all of your yelling -"

"All the more reason to go," he says, and gives you a little push towards the bedroom.

"This is insensible, Jake!" You go in anyways. 

Roxy is sitting up on the bed and looking at her hands. The arch of her spine is familiar - you've seen her sleeping and tired hundreds of times, hundreds - and the look on her face, too, the dull desperate look that says she's about three steps from the edge of panic and she's getting ready to leap.

"Hey," you say, quietly, from the doorway.

She looks up immediately. "Hi," she says, nervously. "I, uh. Did I - did I fucking - shit." She shakes her head, tries again. "Did I do anything? I mean, anything you weren't comfortable with - obvi - because if I did, like, fuck, man, I'll just - I'll just go, right the fuck now, I'll get the fuck outta Vegas, I'll keep my distance or however you -"

"You didn't. Roxy. Relax." You cross to the bed and smooth a hand over her hair. "You're fine."

"Okay. Okay. That's chill. That's choice. That's good."

"Yeah. Relax, dear heart."

Her mouth twitches. "Dear heart. You're lame."

"Would you prefer 'babe'?"

"Hey, maybe I would."

Her lipstick is almost all gone and you know exactly whose skin it's on now, but you don't think about that. "I, ah. I missed my flight."

Her face drops and she leaps off the bed, tugging a dressing gown over her shoulder. "Ah, shit. Okay, just - hold on, I've got a couple of buddies in high places at the airport - I can pull some strings, have you in Texas by sunset. You get Jake ready, and I'll make the call, and you'll be at 30,000 feet and cruising in, like, two hours, tops -"

"I've got to go," you say. "I - there's a flight at two, but Jake and I need to move. Fast."

She hesitates, and then nods firmly. "Yeah. Absolutely. I'll get Dirk to call you a taxi."

You smile wryly. "The car wasn't yours, was it?"

"Uh. Which option would be more convenient for you to believe?"

"Uncertainty, preferably. Plausible deniability, and whatnot."

"Right. My answer is maybe," she says, and ties her dressing gown and starts for the living room. "In the meantime, before you go - do you want some coffee? Can I get you some coffee? This penthouse has the fuckin' best coffee -"

"How is it that you have a place like this, and you were sleeping on pews in Ohio?"

"Well, they didn't have a hotel in Back-ass Nowhere, Ohio, dearie, and Dirk and I were fighting and he always forges the money for us - I'm serious, let me get you a cuppa," she says, pleading.

"I can't stay." You expect Jake's growing impatient. "I have -"

"A mark." She bites it out. "Always another mark."

"I am what I am, Roxy." You spread your hands. "What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know!" She tugs at her hair. "I don't know what I want you to - I want you to  _stay,"_ she blurts. "I want you to - sit down, and have some coffee, and - I want us to have time. I want you not to always have your fucking job! No. That's not what I want. Fuck."

You recoil.

"I'm - I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. Jane? That's not what I meant." Her eyes are ringed in red, this poor girl, she's wrecked because of you. "You - I don't wish that on you. You believe me, right?"

"Roxy," you say, and you don't know how to continue. Your mind is like a static television channel. "I have to go."

Her mouth twists into a bitter, knowing smile. "Yeah, you do." Her voice is rough. She lifts her eyes to meet yours. "So you gonna go, or what?" 

You're speechless.

"Why's it always goodbye, with us?" She lifts an eyebrow. "Always seems to end with goodbye, you and me."

"That's how partings go, Roxy."

"It's never a real 'parting,' though. There's always someplace new." She laughs. "Even in Las Vegas - _last_ place an angel would ever show, I figured - you turn up on my doorstep like you couldn't be more at home in Paradise."

"If you don't want me -"

"Fuck, if that isn't the  _opposite_ of the problem, Crocker," she snarls, and you're surprised by the visceral quality of her anger. "If that isn't the - get your head screwed on straight, because I don't know if you've missed something, but I'm going fucking crazy, waiting for you, here."

" _Waiting_ for me?"  

She flings up her hands. "I know! If it isn't the stupidest thing in the world - I'm the stupidest thing in the world, it's me -"

"That's not true."

"Yeah, you're right. _You're_ the stupidest thing in the world," she says, "and I can't fucking believe I'm saying goodbye -"

She grabs you by the collar and hauls you in for a kiss. She has to stand on her tiptoes to meet your lips without heels, but she is not even remotely inclined to let that stop her, yanking you down to her level so your back hunches uncomfortably and hooking an arm around your neck. It's an angry kiss, her lips pushing against yours like she wants to pull all the idiocy out of you by way of the mouth. 

"You're so -" - kiss - "fucking" - kiss - _"stupid,"_ she breathes against your lips, and then releases you, and you stumble back. 

"There," she says. "Try and avoid me after that."

"What - was  _that_ what that was about?"

"No, that was about me wanting to punch you in your gorgeous face but needing you not to hate me afterwards." She stands up on her tiptoes again and uses your shoulders for leverage. "This is for bringing you back."

She kisses you a third time, slow and steady, with the languid ease of someone who's kissed you a thousand times and knows exactly all the ways you want to be kissed; it's gentle, no tongue, hardly even romantic, but a mild gesture of affection. She does this for almost half a minute before pulling away, looking you even in the eye, and saying, "We've got shit to talk about, Jane Crocker," and you say, "All right," because your knees are jelly and you're not sure that you'll be able to stand on your own if she takes her hands away. 

She seems satisfied with your answer, because she nods and goes to open the door. "Now, shoo."

Jake and Dirk are standing close together in the living room, having a murmured conversation at a level too quiet for you to hear. They break apart when you walk inside, and Jake smiles broadly, offers you his arm; Dirk gives you a nod of respect, and you return it with as much dignity as you can, knowing that you have lipstick painted up and down your carotid artery.

Roxy comes into the living room, looking for all the world like a divine queen descending from her bedchamber, despite mussed hair and fluffy bedrobe. "Come again," she says lightly, as if she didn't just kiss the living daylights out of you and then kick you out.

"See you soon," you promise. "And - I will," you add, earnestly, hoping she understands.

_Always seems to end with goodbye, you and me._

Her smile is a sly, enigmatic thing. "Better," she says casually, leaning on Dirk's shoulder. It's the last you see of her before the door swings shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line of Scripture is Isaiah 14:12.
> 
> The line Jane quotes "from a book" is from T.S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock':
> 
> "Let us go then, you and I,  
> When the evening is spread out against the sky  
> Like a patient etherized upon a table" (1-3).


	5. Chapter 5

**JUNE 28, 1966**

The airport in Austin smells of saline and exhaustion. Jake's quiet, probably still nursing a hangover, despite his usual exuberance upon arriving somewhere new. He ambles off in search of some cold water and maybe an icepack or two, and you go to the bathroom to refresh yourself after the flight.

The ladies' room isn't all that large - the stalls are packed tightly together with tissue-thin toilet paper and creaky faucets. You try to wash your face without making a mess, finally scrub the last of Roxy's lipstick from your face and neck, studiously ignore the wry looks of other women as they pass. You discover a hickey nestled in the hollow of one collarbone and hastily yank your collar back up, resolving to give Roxy hell the next time you see her.  _Honestly._ You're certain you didn't do anything half so conspicuous to her; but then, you can't really remember much.

It's oddly empty for an airport bathroom. There's only a handful of people there when you walk in, and only two remaining when you leave the stall. They're still there when you walk out - an elderly woman with a dark green hijab and a younger one in a hoodie, leaning against the paper towel dispenser.

You go to wash your hands on the opposite side of the room, and the younger woman follows the older when she makes to leave. You watch them out of the corner of your eye.

The girl in the hoodie waits for the older woman to leave, but immediately thereafter grabs a mop from the janitor's bucket, slips it through the handle, and seals the door.

"Hey," you say, "What do you -"

She spins around and flips back her hood, beams at you broadly. "Hi, Jane," she says, and you stop in your tracks.

Terezi Pyrope sheds her jacket and snaps her fingers, vanishing it. She's a short, wiry woman with coarse black hair and teeth like marble razors against the light brown of her skin. Her eyes are featureless red, shielded by an ostentatious pair of scarlet glasses that rival Dirk's in flamboyance. She wears a suit, leans on a cane the color of her sightless eyes. Her wings unfold behind her - broader than yours, more corporeal - in something that you'd normally take as a sign of aggression, but you understand to be for dramatic effect. It's utterly Terezi: the only angel with a near-flawless service record to reach heretofore theoretical levels of unprofessionalism.

"Hello, Terezi."

She strolls forward. Her cane drifts over the floor without touching it. Her smile does not waver one inch when she says, with heat in her eyes and ice in her words, "You're very late, my dear."

"I didn't mean to be. There was a complication."

She waits.

"I encountered an acquaintance in Las Vegas; it was a matter of some urgency." Your voice is level, which you're proud of; your hands are shaking, which you're less proud of, so you pin them to your sides. It's said she can smell lies. You don't believe such poppycock. You're thinking about it anyway.

One eyebrow arches above the red glass. "You smell like booze, Crocker."

"I just came back from Las Vegas," you point out - reasonable enough.

She examines you, sighs. Holds out her arms. "Come here, Ms. Blueberry Freeze, I'm not tall enough to reach you in this short-ass body."

You hesitate, immediately understanding what she wants you to do - but you don't have any plausible excuse to deny her, and so with great resignation you lean over and give her a ceremonial kiss on the lips. It's a brief greeting. Terezi grabs your face between her hands and mashes it to hers for all of two milliseconds before pulling away and smacking her lips thoughtfully. You've been kissed more in the past twenty-four hours, you think, than you have in the past twenty-four years combined.

"Your breath smells like booze," she clarifies, and your stomach curdles. 

"Perhaps you're mistaken, Ms. Pyrope." Ms. Pyrope has never been wrong about a scent in her life, but you've told gutsier lies. 

"Seraph Pyrope," she says lightly, "although if we're all being honest here, I don't give a shit about titles."

"You made Seraph?"

"A couple of decades ago. You missed my party. I was awfully upset."

"Congratulations." It makes sense; she's failed all of three missions since before the Common Era, and she's highly effective. But you'd expected her partner to break rank far before she did - you didn't figure Pyrope to be the kind to work alone. Nonetheless, she certainly deserves it.  

You quash your envy in its infancy. There's a reason _you_ haven't made Seraph, and last night it left a hickey on your neck.

"Many thanks given, old friend. It's really not all that interesting, don't look so _covetous_. It's all paperwork and looking after wayward fledglings, no fun at all." She hefts a woebegone sigh. "I haven't given anyone a proper drubbing in  _years."_

"Somehow I doubt that, if you'll pardon me saying so, Madame."

She squints. "Don't get formal with me, neither. I can still park your ass in the middle of the Sahara for the next fifty years if I figure you're looking at me funny. I'm in charge of those things, now, Employer knows why."

"You give assignments?" You're tempted to laugh; there's nothing so thoroughly ill-suited to her disposition. 

"Eh. Part-time. It's a boring job and I hate it, but somebody has to, and the others couldn't do it if you spelled out how on a demon's naked ass and danced them through the Vatican. All things in truth, Crocker, I'm more of a disciplinarian than an angel, nowadays! It's the worst. Wish I'd stayed part of the labor force, you folk get all the fun bits."

"Would you like to trade?"

The corner of her thin lips curl. "Sure," she says, "but you wouldn't."

"I assure you I would."

She ignores you and leaps onto the counter, crossing her legs fluidly. The cane balances across her lap and one of her wings takes out a soap dispenser; it shatters in a small explosion of plastic and suds. She doesn't seem to notice. "Very few daemons in my line of work, Crocker," she says matter-of-factly.

Your windpipe feels swollen and dry. "Why would that be a problem, Seraph Pyrope?"

Her eyes narrow. They're not looking at you - drifting instead somewhere over your right shoulder - although for someone who can't actually see with them, she's damn close. The effect is nonetheless intimidating. "The problem is your pet, my dearest sapphire sweetheart."

"I'm sorry, Seraph, but I don't know what you mean." You hold your hands behind your back, the picture of respectful ignorance. 

"Don't you?"

"I do not," you say carefully.

"All right. You're too smart for word games, should have figured - direct approach! There's something to be said for it." Her hands rest on either side of her cane elegantly. "Let me set up a scene for you, my very wise sister, and maybe you'll understand.

"I'm sitting in my desk, doing my job. It's not a great job, you know, but it's a living. And there are perks! So I'm sitting there, doing it, doing it. And then I get a  _call._ And I'm thinking, when's the last time I've had a  _call?_ Turns out it's an assignment. Field assignment, first one in three decades. 'Course, I'm ecstatic, because I'm finally allowed to use this -" She shakes the cane slightly - "on somebody that isn't bringing me coffee. A criminal! Or something. I get the report, and I'm so ready to bust out the old moves you wouldn't believe! But here's the thing," she says, and her voice drops low, "it's not a criminal! It's a rogue angel report."

You exclaim, "That's ridiculous," and she pops you on the head with the handle of her cane.

"Naturally! But don't interrupt your superiors. I see your name on it, and I figure, this can't be right! Because Jane Crocker, she's laced up tight as a Puritan's britches, wouldn't take time off work to scratch her own ass. But what's on the order's on the order, can't be helped, changed, amended, or fixed up any other way. My job's to round up this _lady gone_ _wild_ and pass judgment. And so I get all tidied up fancy - hope you appreciate this, by the way, it's all for you - to come play the old game. Hunt the old hunt! And what should I find," she drawls, "but your own _heavenly_ self, booze on your breath and guilt written all over you!" Her voice is slow, savoring the story like something delectable. "You know, I nearly killed you on sight when you came into the bathroom - thought some demon had gone and stolen my friend's skin."

"I'm very glad you didn't," you say tightly.

"No shit." She twirls the weapon. "But here's the thing, Ms. Blueberry. I don't really want to kill you."

"Thanks."

"Nor do I think you're a rogue! One night of freedom does not a criminal make. After all, who  _doesn't_ take a break once in a while?"

Your windpipe unlocks and you can breathe again, thinking you're free. But you catch her eyes glittering at you over the tops of her lenses, blank and telling, and you realize that you're still under interrogation.

"You," you answer. "Responsible angels. Proper agents of Heaven."

"You," she says, a grin splitting her face, "are one hundred percent correct, dear heart." She leaps off the counter. "Not to say I'm unsympathetic to your plight, but you must understand the way things are."

"I understand everything."

"You don't," she replies casually, "but you will, if you stick around. Please do stick around, too. You've quite recently become interesting."

"I live to entertain," you say through gritted teeth.

"Don't be a sourpuss. This is me being lenient." She tweaks your nose. "Now, are you going to tell me what you were doing yesterday?"

"I assumed that the order for my arrest already informed you about the nature of my absence. _Seraph_ Pyrope."

"Interesting assumption." She fixes her tie in the mirror. "If I were your defense - which I am not, seeing as I am your prosecutor and your judge in this particular court - I would tell you to tell me - the prosecution - the truth anyway, because if I know what you have done, there is nothing to be gained from lying, and if I do not, and you lie, I presume guilt." Her nostrils twitch. "I _will_ know if you lie, too, Crocker, so take the advice of your theoretical defense."

"Are you holding court in the _bathroom_?"

"I hold court," she says, with the imperial regality of the Employer Themself, "anywhere and everywhere I please."

"Right." You nod, trying to keep the aggravation from your voice. "Of course. Of course! Silly question."

"The prosecution is not famous for her patience," Terezi notes.

You take a deep breath. "I went out drinking last night," you say, slowly, parsing each syllable before it leaves your mouth. "It was with three others. Jake was one. It wasn't his idea. He was resistant to the notion in the first place. Don't blame him." _Jake._ Fear of his arrest and subsequent punishment for your crime claws at you.   

"Your recommendation is noted but is not a fact. Continue."

"He - he and I - went out with a pair of old friends. We've known them for forty - fifty, almost fifty years. A man and a woman. We lost track of the time. We didn't mean to be late. And no sin was intended." You swallow. "If I'm right, that qualifies - that qualifies as a lesser charge than intentional wrong."

Her mouth twists into a consternated expression. "The defendant insists on inserting her opinions and presumptions about the verdict into her telling of the case," she says irritably, "but is not lying."

You exhale through your nose. "Terezi," you say, "please - you _know_ me -"

"I thought I did!" She says this with no particular resentment, curiously. "But you keep surprising me, Ms. Blueberry. What were their names?"

"The two mortals with you."

It's another trick. "The other two people with me were named Roxy and Dirk."

"Last names?"

"I don't know."

"You got blackout drunk with these people and you don't even know their last names?"

"To be fair, I'm not even sure that they have any."

"Fascinating. What were you drinking?"

The question blindsides you so thoroughly that you almost laugh. "What?"

"Alcohol," she says. "Booze. Moonshine. What was it?"

"I - I believe at one point there was something called a Sex on the Beach," you say, struggling to keep a straight face. Terezi has no such inclinations. She cackles, leaning on her cane and giving her entire body into the laugh. 

" _Really!_ Oh, Ms. Blueberry Freeze, you've made my day."

"If you'll permit me," you hedge, "I don't believe there's any charge for the consumption of alcohol."

She turns and looks you right in the eye, stepping forward until there's barely a handbreadth between you. "Dearest Ms. Blue," she murmurs. Her hand drifts to your collar and pushes it aside, revealing the stark black mark over your collarbone. Her fingers brush it lightly, hardly more pressure than breath on your skin. It twinges. "Let's not pretend you're on trial for  _drinking."_

Her nail traces its outline. "Thou shalt not  _covet,"_ she whispers. "Thou shalt not  _want."_

Abruptly, her thumb presses into the bruise, hard, and you make a sharp hiss of pain. "Thou shalt not  _take,"_ she declares, her voice filling the room and echoing even after she falls back into silence. It rings in your ears, a hundred little mimicries of Terezi Pyrope, chanting with increasing distortion the nature of your charge.

"I did not take -"

"Aside from that obvious bullshittery," she says, "the sin lies not only in the most carnal form of taking, Ms. Crocker."

"Lust?"

"An outdated word for a nuanced concept."

You step back and her hand falls from your neck. "Jake is safe, then."

"What makes you think Mr. Granny Smith is free from judgment?"

"He didn't - he's a flirt but he isn't -"

"If my job were to judge every flirt in the Host I'd be holding court till Armageddon. _Think._ "

"He and Dirk did  _nothing."_

"A for passion, D for credibility. I can smell your uncertainty. Give me a reason not to strip you both of honors." She looks over her glasses. "Jane," she says, more quietly. "Give me a reason."

You realize that she's earnestly asking you for one. She doesn't want you to be guilty; Terezi doesn't want to administer your punishment.

But you can't help her. "I don't have one." You straighten your back and prepare for her verdict. "I will accept your verdict without question." You wonder where Jake is. If you take his punishment - if she'd let you - she'd probably let you - 

She sags, excitement leaving her. "Lazybones," she mumbles, and pushes her glasses up her nose. "All right. Give the jury a moment, it's deliberating and also trying not to be epically disappointed in your lack of creativity."

"You're the heavenly scholar, Seraph -"

"I said  _give the jury a moment."_ She thumps you on the shoulder with her cane. 

"Sorry."

She steeples her fingers before her face and inhales, exhales. Takes a good long sniff at you and then paces up and down the bathroom floor, muttering under her breath. The broom in the door handle rattles as someone tries to get in. She waves an absentminded hand at the door and the interruption ceases abruptly. 

"All right," she says, clapping her hands. "I have a solution." She stops and stares pointedly at the far wall, as if waiting for something.

"Oh - sorry - was I to -"

" _Since_ you asked! My solution is both brilliant and technically legal! The former qualification took much less time to fulfill than the latter, let me tell you! Those smooch-marks on your neck are pretty damn incriminating!"

"So -"

"The jury finds you innocent of the sin of Lust," she announces, with pomp worthy of a crowd. "You are found guilty of the _lesser_ sin of negligence, and your penance will be three years' probation."

"I'm not paid -"

" _Three years' probation_ ," she continues, louder, "as well owing of one favor to the prosecution, wherein the terms of said favor are set by the prosecution, non-negotiably, and to be fulfilled at any later date, expiring never -"

"A favor -"

"- conditional upon the continued survival of both parties sworn to the contract, and the bounds of magnitude are unlimited. Part the second, Fulfillment. Fulfillment will be performed reasonably promptly and/or upon a timeframe requested by the prosecution - hereafter: Creditor - regardless of personal cost or consequence to the defendant - hereafter: Debtor - in finance, comfort, station, image, or dignity -"

"Terezi!" You grab her by the shoulders and her jaw snaps shut, immediately spinning to address your intrusion on her space. "You're letting me go?"

"You will not interrupt the judge in the reading of the verdict," she reprimands you, but you pull her in for a hug.

"I don't care - look, you've got your favor, with whatever conditions you want it."

Her words are muffled by your shoulder; she does not hug you back, but nor does she gut you for impudence, so you consider it a victory. "In cutting short the recitation of the conditions you give implicit consent to all!"

"Like you'd have let me negotiate any of them anyway." 

"You are correct." You release her, deciding that you've overstayed your welcome, and she brushes off her jacket, picks off an imaginary piece of lint.

"Thank you," you say, earnestly, "I won't fail again -"

"Jane." The tip of her cane meets the floor with a sharp crack to focus your attention. "I appreciate your gratitude, sweet sapphire, but don't count your eggs before they break."

You falter.

"What follows is not part of the verdict, and in fact is not going to transpire."

"Pardon?"

"What follows will never be said, and in the future will never have been said, and will in the future be denied as hearsay and nonsense should anyone try and remind me of something that never happened."  

"All right," you say, slowly.

She steps forward and puts a palm on your cheek. Her skin is cool and rough. "Roxy will not change," she tells you brusquely. "And I don't mean in the way that matters, which is to say the person that she is, which will and can and should change and maybe is in the process of doing that right now. But the thing that does not matter - which is to say the _thing_ she is - will not. And you are a stupid dumb idiot if you think for one second that it will."

"I don't know what you mean," you lie.

"You can't lie to me," she says, and then, "You can't lie to the Employer," and she hefts her cane in one hand and starts backing towards the door.

"I'm not trying to change her. I don't fool myself thinking she will - how did you get her name?"

"Her name is written across your reports!" She throws up her hands. "Twenty recorded interactions  _alone,_ Jane, you think people aren't watching? Think a name like yours can just slip off the grid? Did you think you were the only angel in Las Vegas, Jane?"

She's almost angry. There's nothing of her playful catlike qualities now, only an undertone of regret and worry that scares you more than any courtroom theatric she could play. There's something wild written in her blank red eyes. "You think you're the only one who's ever tried to keep a _secret?"_

Your throat is dry. You swallow to clear it; she exhales and runs her fingers through her hair. The clock on the wall strikes beat after beat after beat.

You say, "Are we still talking about me?"

"You're insufferably narcissistic. I don't know why I'm sticking my neck out for you. I am, though. Be grateful or don't, I don't care - but people who don't take my advice very rarely come to good ends, Ms. Blueberry Freeze."

"So what is your advice?" You lay down your words carefully. 

"My advice." Her voice drops again to a drawl. "My advice is that you run very, very far away from Ms. Bubblegum, and you never stop running."

"And if I don't."

"Then I expect I'll see you soon, one way or another." She removes the broom from the door. "You know, you were up for Seraph, this past half-century. I was the deciding vote that denied it."

You flinch, stung. "Why?"

She shrugs and hooks her cane over one arm, perfectly casual. "Commitment issues."

You bow your head and bite your tongue. Now is not the time to bicker with the woman that let you go.

She waits for a moment, perhaps expecting some kind of retort, and then opens the door to leave. 

You can't help it; you lift your chin. "Say, Pyrope," you call. "Where's your partner?"

She pauses at the door, and for a hot second you think she's going to carve your head from your shoulders for insolence.

But she turns over her shoulder and opens her mouth in some horrible approximate of a smile. "Dead," she chirps. "Thanks for asking."

Then Seraph Pyrope beats her wings once, and fizzles out of existence. 

* * *

You tear through the airport looking for Jake after you manage to recover from the urge to throw up. You swear to God that you'll kill him and also the architect, if you ever get your heart to stop racing, if and when you find him in this goddamn  _labyrinth -_

And then you see him leaning on the wall outside a _Subway's_ , and you almost cry.

"Jake  _English,"_ you exclaim, debating even as you approach whether to slap him or launch yourself into his arms and never let go. "I've been looking for you for _hours_ -"

He's on the pay phone, and finishes with a quick "call you later," hanging up. Then he turns to face you with an easy grin, utterly unruffled. "It's hardly been an hour! And you took your sweet time in the loo, so you'll forgive me for making myself scarce."

"Sorry - got held up in a conversation -" You settle on hugging him, and throw your arms around his thick waist. "You're all right, though."

"Course I am! I - what happened? Jane?"

"Nothing," you say. "Nothing - nothing to worry about -"

"No, what's happened?"

" _Nothing,_ Jake. Take my word. Absolutely nothing."

"You're lying," he says worriedly, "but if you say so - I trust you."

"Yeah," you breathe. You wonder why you don't feel relieved. "I know you do."

* * *

_The evil deeds of the wicked ensnare them; the cords of their sins hold them fast.  For lack of discipline they will die, led astray by their own great folly._

* * *

The next time you see Roxy is three months later, outside your mark's apartment in Austin. You find her lingering down by the doorstep, a hood pulled over her hair and twirling a pen between her fingers. It almost gives you a heart attack. 

"Hey."

"Funny that you would turn up," you say. You eye the street around you; it's almost empty. But not completely. You keep your distance. 

She shoves the pen in her pockets. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

"How did you find me?"

"Called up Jake," she said. "Took a couple tries. Had to wear him down."

"I'll have to talk to him."

"What's up?" She takes a step closer and you hold your ground, but you keep your hands held behind your back.

_My advice is that you run very, very far._

"I'm rather busy, Roxy."

"Too busy to take a break?" She cracks a smile.

"Do you remember what happened last time?"

"Aw - I take full responsibility for that, and I'm sorry - why I wanted to come talk to you, matter of fact -"

"I understand," you say. You're as gentle as you can be. "But I've had a recommendation by one of my overseers -"

"To what? To leave me alone?" Her face tightens. "You don't buy that bullshit, do you? They've all got sticks up their asses, they don't know the first thing about you and me."

"What  _is_ the first thing about you and me?" You fold your arms. "What do you want?" 

"I - just wanna hang out, you know -" 

"I can't." The words weigh like cotton on your tongue. "It's just - I've broken a lot of rules already."

"What rules? You're always listing off a rule or something that stops you from doing - whatever. I can't believe they're gonna hold you to bullshit regulations that don't even make  _sense!"_

"They make perfect sense."

"Not to me," she says scathingly, "and they shouldn't to you, either."

You shake your head and ignore the tugging cramp in your gut. "I need to get back to this assignment. I'm sorry."

She puffs up in anger, and then, abruptly, deflates. "It's - it's okay," she says quietly. "You know - I get that. I get that! I, uh. Should've figured."

"Figured what?"

"Nothing. Uh, so - you want me to just, not talk to you, or -"

_And you never stop running._

"I'll let you know."

"Right. I'll just - go, then."

"That might be best."

She turns, hesitates, casts a look over her shoulder.

"So I guess I'm not allowed to kiss you, either," she says - somewhat laughingly.

"Maybe you shouldn't," you say, carefully. She nods in understanding.

"Sure, sure. I get you. It was — yeah. I get you." She flips up her hood and backs off. Her smile’s bold as brass and you hurt. "All right, Feathers, whatever you want. I'll see you around."

* * *

**JULY 10, 1975**

Quebec is beautiful, from a sheer aesthetic standpoint. The skyline is historic, crown molds and spires, and lines of expensive apartments crowding the riverfront. Bridges stabbing the horizon. The Citadelle rising from the distance. You can understand why the general temperament of the city is pleasant. Granted, the citizens you associate with are mostly wealthy ones, so they have no reason to be in bad temperament. But you would expect that most ill-tempered would at least be mollified by the beauty of the city on a sunny day.

You return from an afternoon shopping trip with armfuls of baking supplies. You've picked up the hobby in your spare time. You have a lot of spare time, nowadays. Your assignment lives in the flat above yours - she's an ancient woman of eighty-five, a dud of an assignment, compared to what you've gotten in the past. She's apparently in need of protection from death before her due; in your opinion, the age at which her death would have "come before her due" passed ten years ago. She's not a very nice person. But apparently she's a virtuous one, so here you are.

Jake has been slowly sinking into madness. He doesn't do well being cooped up, and he likes attending to your charge, certainly, but there's a certain monotony to the lifestyle that you know bores him terribly. He doesn't do well when he's bored, either. It's a beautiful city. It's a beautiful flat. But beauty's not enough for Jake. He needs something substantial. You know that. And so does he.

But for now, he's stuck with you, and you do your best to distract him. So you've picked up baking.

There's something calming about preparing food. After a while, the motions are all familiar. Your hands can cut and grind and stir on their own, and you can daydream. It's one of the few activities that you can do without thinking, but unlike the piano, it yields results. You've baked enough to feed a city block, although of course your mark never appreciates it. You give it to the young family with twin two-year-olds downstairs instead.

It's downright domestic, if you ignore the part where each day there could be your last, and you spend all your time either in the kitchen or before the piano, and that Jake's living on a prayer that your mark will die before he acrobatically pirouettes off the handle. To be fair, it's exactly what you always thought domesticity would be. You, Jake, and an infinite supply of tedium.

He's sitting in the living room when you get home, curled up next to the phone and fidgeting with the cord. He waves a brief hello when you walk in the door, and you're going to put the groceries away when you hear him say, "Strider," and you pause. You know most of Jake's friends; there isn't a "Strider" among them. 

It's bad manners to eavesdrop, so you rattle a few cabinets and drown him out. It works, for all of thirty seconds.

His laugh swallows any noise from the kitchen and you hold still.

"Really?"

You set the flour on its shelf.

"No."

He's quiet for a few seconds. Then he says, "You're  _kidding_ me -" - and bursts into laughter again.

You have half a mind to keep eavesdropping and half a mind to give him privacy. He doesn't get to talk with friends terribly often, cooped up as he is -

"I'll visit next year, old boy."

Eavesdropping it is.

You hover in the doorway of the living room, thoroughly disgusted with yourself.

"Sure. Of course! I'll talk to you soon, Strider."

He slots the door back onto the receiver and springs to his feet. You take your cue to saunter into the living room - a picture of casual disinterest, revealing not a touch of suspicion.

"Who was that?"

"Oh, just Dirk." 

"Dirk?" You set your back teeth against each other and force a smile. "Why - why did he call?"

"Just for a chat. He's got an awful lot of interesting things to say, once you've got him talking. Could hardly shut him up."

"Ah. So he's - does he call often?" You hate how anxious you sound, and smooth your voice. "How are they?"

"Perfectly wild, but otherwise fine. I mean, they're drifting often, but he has our number - he'll call, now and again." He sees the hesitation in your face and frowns. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. Nothing," you say, firmer. "It's - you're fine. It's not like there's anything going on for him to distract you from, anyway." 

"Well, that's what I thought, but - are you all right?"

"I'm fine," you say. You convince yourself - "We're fine."

* * *

The second time you find him on the phone with Dirk, you say nothing and go to the piano. You play something soft - _Clair de Lune_ , drifting in and out with snatches of other Debussy - until he finishes. He has a mild smile on his face and sits still for a whole six minutes after the call ends, right up into the last notes, and says, "That's quite pretty, Jane," and nothing else.

* * *

The third time, you go into the kitchen and bake for two hours straight. When you come out of the kitchen, he still hasn't finished talking and you have to pester him to get off the phone so you can call your mark upstairs and check on her. He urges you, his hand over the receiver, to go check on her in person instead, and plunges back into his conversation with no more attention paid to you or his job. You grind your teeth and bring the tin of muffins up to her alone. She ropes you into a conversation about World War I. Her account is rife with inaccuracies. You should know; you fought in it. Jake doesn't come up.

* * *

The fourth time happens at nine o'clock at night. You get home from your mark's apartment and go straight to your room, ignoring his presence in the living room entirely. You consider making a snide remark about whether he ever leaves that chair, but decide against it.

* * *

The fifth. It's four-thirty in the morning.

* * *

The sixth. You consider moving out. You do not, but you come close.

* * *

The seventh. It occurs to you that these aren't even all the times you've known him to talk to Dirk; they're only the times that you've caught him doing it. You want to talk to him about it but you don't know what to say. After sixty years of dashing after Roxy at every possible encounter, you hardly have a leg to stand on in that particular conversation.

* * *

August rolls around, warm and energetic, and you come home to find Dirk Strider in your living room.

You almost drop your groceries and come far too close to drawing your pitchfork. He turns around, leisurely-like, and greets you in mild tones. You fling your groceries on the table and are in his face before he can even register the movement.

"What are you  _doing_ here?"

"I'm - here for Jake," he says, startled for the first time since you've known him.

"Where is he?" 

"In the shower - I -"

"Does he know you're here?"

"Yes?" You've got a fistful of his ridiculous t-shirt - it has a  _baseball cap_  on it, of all things, you've never been so irritated in your life - and your other hand clenches and unclenches sporadically, reflecting your internal conflict over whether or not to punch him into the next eon. 

"All right. All right. All right." You loosen your fingers around his collar but do not let go. "What are you here for, then? Did he leave something with you?"

"No - I was just here to see him -" He has at last seemed to grasp the gravity of having an irate angel holding him by the neck, and fear flashes across his face. "I, I thought you -"

"I did  _not_ know you were coming, no. As such, you can understand my concern."

"I thought we were cool -"

"If you think that gives you the right to invite yourself over without alerting _both_ inhabitants of the house, then you were  _very much mistaken,_ Mr. Strider."

"He invited me," he stutters. "He - he said I could -"

"Oh." You uncurl your fist from his shirt and back away. By way of apology, you straighten the collar where you wrinkled it. "My apologies."

"Right. Uh, no problem, miss. Ma'am." You can see his eyebrows arching above his sunglasses.

"Would you care for a glass of water?"

"No. Thank you."

You fold your arms. "Jake should be out soon," you say curtly. "Can I invite you to take a seat?"

His lip twitches. "Can you?"

"I'll still punch you, Strider."

"Sorry, ma'am."

Jake trots out of the bathroom, his hair wet and his eyes bright. "Hi, there, Jane," he exclaims, betraying no dismay at your presence, if he feels it. "Didn't realize you'd come home."

"Imagine my surprise."

"Oh, yes. Sorry, meant to tell you - didn't get around to it, the time never seemed right."

"Right." You eye Dirk. "Is there a reason he's here?"

"Just for a friendly chat." He plants his hands on his hips and looks between you. "Erm."

You all wait for each other to speak. No one does.

"How's Roxy?" Jake makes the effort. You appreciate it. You do not appreciate the subject matter.

"She's fine. Living low for a while, taking a break. I got her off booze for the time being, she's doing okay with that."

"That's splendid!"

"Definitely."

You interject, "What's she been up to?"

"She took up knitting. _That_ was an exercise in patience for both of us." He fishes around in his back pocket and pulls out a crumpled letter. "Uh. She sent this, so." 

You take it. Your name is drawn in the front in loopy cursive. You slide it neatly into your purse. 

"Thank you. I'll look at it later."

You're increasingly aware of your imposition on their privacy, and resigned, you make your exit. "I've got to be going," you lie, and wait for Jake to object. He doesn't. He's looking at Dirk with an expression you've only ever seen in movies. "Things to take care of. Business to sort out."

"Talk to you later, Jane," Jake offers, and Dirk waves subtly. When you leave, neither of them are watching you.

* * *

_hi janey,_  

~~_look_ ~~

~~_do you_ ~~

_hi. dont kill Dirk, he's whipped. also id be like super bummed if you did so if you could like_

_not_

_thatd be great_

_-rolal_  

* * *

You spend three days writing and rewriting your reply; ultimately, you end up with:

_Dear Roxy,_

_He is not dead._

You never finish or send your response. Dirk stays for a week, and then leaves. You're not so stupid as to think he won't be back again.

* * *

Here are the things you learn about Dirk Strider: 

1\. Jake is perhaps fonder of him than he is of anyone else, barring you, and even, you sometimes think, including you;

2. He will sleep anywhere, at any time, even the kitchen table, at four o'clock in the morning;

3\. His wardrobe is almost entirely comprised of ironic t-shirts and shoddy jeans, paired in the ugliest iterations possible;

4\. He says he takes his coffee black, but he won't drink it unless it has three spoonfuls of sugar; and

5\. He is at least as fond of Jake as Jake is of him.

At least three of these you learn after bickering with him about it. Dirk bickers like a kid with a grudge - which is to say, petty, and engaging in ad hominem attacks left and right. You at last learn to leave him well enough alone before he's ingested a bare minimum of three Redbulls, which put him in better spirits. Even then, you don't make much contact. Jake keeps him entertained, anyway. You're not necessary.

But there are times when you can't help yourself.

"You'd think," you say, delicately, stepping over his sleeping body curled in the kitchen doorway, "that after one point, a pair of charming young paramours would share a bed, if not for intimacy, then for the comfort and peace of mind of other occupants of the house."

"You'd think," he agrees, and you give Jake an ounce of credit.

"Coffee?"

"Thanks."

* * *

_Dear Janey,_

_hopefully ur gettin these and dirks not sittin on them somewhere or watever but i was hopin youd write me back so i dont have to worry about whether ur gettin all these dope ass instructions im sending u for the care and keeping of 1 daemon strider. hes kind of a handful_

_heres a tip: dont sit on his weirdass puppets its a bad idea and hell never forgive you for it so long as you live_

_-rolal_

* * *

This remark puzzles you, until you pluck one of his puppets out of the strings in your piano:

"If you don't keep your frivolous exercises in uncanny imagery _out_ of my instrument _so help me God_  -"

"Sorry, sorry about that. Wondered where he'd got off to." He plucks it out of your hand and you quake with rage. "I'll keep him out of your hair."

" _Him_?"

"Yeah?" He scratches his head. "What's up?" 

"I -" The point you want to make defies words. Instead, you just shake your head. "I don't know."

Or, when he stumbles out of Jake's bedroom at ten o'clock in the morning, Jake still nowhere to be found:

"Morning," you say noncommittally, and take a sip of coffee.

"Hi." He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a rocket launcher.

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah, fine."

"Did Jake?"

His jaw is tight. You're thoroughly enjoying yourself.

"Yeah. Like a baby."

"Good." You set your mug of coffee down. "He needs his sleep."

"Totally."

He almost sprints to the kitchen to remove himself from your immediate line of sight. When Jake emerges from the bedroom, half an hour later, you stare him down in disappointment.

"Sorry," he says, combing his fingers through his hair. "I, ah. I'm sure you -"

"I don't have the faintest idea what you're apologizing for," you say mildly, and turn a page of your book.

"Ah," he says. "Thanks, Jane."

At least he has the decency to be grateful.

* * *

Dirk is still living with you when your assignment dies in her bed, at eighty-five years and three hundred days old. You're downstairs when it happens; you can feel it, like a necklace of rocks being lifted from your throat. You breathe deeply, and then go upstairs to ensure her safe departure to the afterlife. It's businesslike, now, methodical. The worst part of the job is over. The cleanup comes next.

Death, contrary to popular belief, looks nothing like sleep. You can tell when you enter her bedroom that she's dead. It smells stale and slightly putrid, and she's paler, perfectly motionless. The room is cold without a body to heat it. When you touch the bedcovers, they're ice. You take her pulse to be sure, but you're never wrong about these kinds of things. So you fold the sheet over her face in respect and call the paramedics, doing your best to sound dreadfully concerned and torn up about it. You can't bring yourself to feel anything more than passing regret over her death. She was an unpleasant person, but even unpleasant people's deaths are generally more unpleasant than they ever were.

Then you go back to your apartment and sit in your living room and wait.

Forty minutes after you make the call, a group of paramedics trudge past your door. There's no urgency; why would there be? She won't get any more dead in the time it takes them to use the lethargic elevator, to haul her body onto the stretcher and try to fit her into the elevator - if not, to walk her down the stairs. You'll get an invitation to her funeral in the mail in eight to ten business days from one of her relatives - if she has any relatives - and you won't be here to receive it, and that will be that.

The end of an assignment is always the worst part.

You wait for Jake to get home for two hours, casting periodic and increasingly agitated - incredulous - glances at the clock. Six o'clock rolls by. Seven. You think,  _He should have realized what happened by now,_ and,  _He should have been here in the first place -_ but he was out with Dirk. He's always out with Dirk, these days. You can't remember the last time you had a conversation with him that didn't in some way rotate around the damnable blond. 

Yes, you can - it was three days past, and the pair of you were caught together in the kitchen in a rare moment of solitude; Dirk was out shopping for puppet supplies or whatever the hell he does in his time apart from Jake, and Jake was milling around like he didn't know what to do with himself now that he was alone with you again. Like the pair of you hadn't spent  _years_ in comfortable silence, neither needing nor caring to voice a word, understanding each other perfectly.

_I am not envious of Dirk Strider._

It's a cardinal sin, Envy; not that you can try an angel for Envy, as you can for Lust, but it's generally looked down upon. And you're not envious. You don't want Jake for yourself, any more than Jake wants you; nor are you even mildly interested in Dirk. _Jealousy,_ on the other hand, greed - you know _her_ well. 

You spare a brief thought for Roxy, and wish she were here. It's impossible to feel lonely when she's in the room. 

"Do you want anything?" you had asked Jake. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm just - a water."

You had hurried to get one for him, and he hovered in the doorway, picking at imaginary knotholes in the wood. You brought it to him and he took it without touching your fingers.

"Thanks," he said, and you had nodded quickly. The silence drew out between you. There is no silence in the world, you think, that weighs on you like that between two once-friends.

Roxy could have broken a silence anywhere; still, you try not to think about that. You've unsuccessfully avoided thinking about Roxy for going on two months, and although your campaign has been broken by frequent and increasingly elaborate letters brought to your doorstep by the grace of Mr. Strider, your lack of reply has made progress in dissuading her from sending them.

* * *

_Hi Janey,_

_u arent responding to my letters which is like, cool i guess, whatever, but if u could make sure dirk drinks smthn other than coffee id much appreciate it. he hasnt been at home as much these last few months and idk if he and jakey are gettin busay or anything but no matter what hes doing with you guys he needs to drink water he doesnt do that as much as he should_

_ive kind of been worrying about you not that much tho_

_lmao_

_uh if you get this also give dirk like. a good solid whack upside the head bc he hasnt called me like he promised he would and i get that hes a grownass man with a bf and whatnot but aint no grownass man too manly to call his blood sister when shes gettin worried so_

_all around hope u guys r ok_

_-rolal_

* * *

Jake comes home at ten o'clock precisely, dragging Dirk in behind him, laughing his head off. 

You fold your legs and wait for them to notice you. 

He catches sight of your expression and his falls. "Something happened," he says dejectedly, and you nod.

"Something rather important," you add, and don't bother keeping the ice from your tone.

Dirk slips out of the corner of the room, apparently feeling the need to make himself scarce. You appreciate it.

"She died," you say finally, steepling your fingers. Jake blanches. 

"Oh, jiminy fucking crickets."

"If I had any idea what that meant, I'd probably agree."

"Listen - I'm so sorry, you can't possibly -"

"What can't I do?" You're being cruel. You don't care. "Please."

"I'm very sorry." He is so small. Even when he's four feet taller than you and built like a gorilla, he manages to make himself look smaller than you. "I wish I'd been here - I'm sorry you had to -"

"I'm not." You steel yourself. You think this is what Terezi would do in your position; rise, and deliver what she had to say without pause. "It was hardly a bother, to be honest."

"Oh." His head tilts bemusedly. "So - if you don't mind me asking - what's the big fuss?"

Again, you cut him off. "The _big fuss_ is that at that point, it wasn't even your assignment," you say, and if you were ice before, now you're a house on fire. "You let  _me_ take care of  _our assignment_ for  _months_ so that you could flounce around -"

"There was no 'flouncing' involved, thank you very much!"

"- with your new  _boyfriend_ _,_ breaking  _cardinal rules,_ and generally making an ass of yourself, and me by association!" You stand up. "You act like you're free from _consequences_ -" 

"Consequences! Dirk and I are friends!"

"Friends who sleep together," you say scathingly, "friends who share a bed, and a bathroom, and spend every waking moment together, running around town and neglecting your job -"

"I never neglected," he hedges, and you are blind with rage.

 _"Never neglected!_ You didn't -  _I_ went up there, every day, Jake, not you,  _me -_ I brought her food, I asked her how she was doing, I was the one that made sure she recovered from the bout of pneumonia in January, the flu in March,  - I was the one who made sure she died at the proper time, which was this morning - when you weren't here - and not a day before, for whatever  _goddamn_ reason it was so crucial that one old woman didn't bite the dust before the proper time - but I did it, and all the while my partner was off consorting with a daemon and gleefully not giving a fuck!"

"Jane!"

"You could be  _tried_ for what you're doing -"

"For what  _I'm_ doing?" His laugh is fake and it stings. "How often have you talked to Roxy since - since you met her? I hardly think that a few decades' friendship compares to the three-quarter century affair you're entertaining with your own, all the while telling me off for having a friend outside of you -"

"Roxy is different," you hiss. "For one thing, I'm not abandoning my _job_ for her -"

"Isn't that a story! You were every bit as drunk as I was, you know, in Vegas -"

"I got _tried_ for that," you snarl, "you enormous  _fucking prick."_

He's stunned silent. You breathe heavily, nails digging little crescents into the flesh of your palm. He tugs at his collar.

"When?"

"Austin," you say. "Terezi Pyrope. Seraph. Seraph Pyrope."

"Seraph?"

"Yes." You don't bother to explain. "And I was absolved by the skin of my teeth, and I am not going to do it again. Nor will I see you in the same position. I love you, Jake, but I'd rather see you miserable than dead."

"But -" He grasps at straws. You can see his mind spinning. "But aren't you still in contact with Roxy?"

"Hardly."

"You just. You just cut her off? Like that?"

"I explained the situation," you bite out. "I am not, in fact, a heartless bitch."

"But you two were inseparable!"

"Evidently not. We have been separated."

"What do you call what kept happening between you? It's serendipity! It's an act of -"

"Serendipity is a farce and Roxy and I met repeatedly because of a series of coincidences, and nothing else. The world is a big place and strange things happen, sometimes."

"You can't suggest -"

"Distractions are not _healthy_ in my - in our line of work. When I get distracted, people die."

"Nobody _died_ -"

"How many chances do I get?" You spread your hands. "How many assignments do I miss or botch because of Roxy before someone ends up dead? Or damned? Or - Jake, our - we - we aren't meant to be distracted. Bad things happen when we're selfish. That's why it's sin."

"Love can't be sin," he exclaims, and you roll your eyes so hard you're afraid you strain something.

"You're an idiot if you think that you can offer up _love_ as an excuse for negligence."

"When did you get so cynical?" He looks at you like he's never seen you before. "When did you stop _caring?"_

You deck him across the face.

It's a good, square punch, landing neatly under his cheekbone and shaking his whole body with impact. He stumbles over and trips on the futon, landing on the couch. He lifts a hand to touch his cheek and winces; already you can see a dark pink flush blossoming under the skin that you are confident will, within days, bruise colorfully.

He stares at you in amazement.

"Don't you ever say I don't care," you warn him, and your voice echoes through the room. "Don't you ever say it, Jake. Don't you dare."

"Sorry," he admits, and you relax. "That was - that was dreadful of me, I -"

"Yes." 

"But. You have to admit - you sound so cold, Jane."

"Maybe." You do your best to stay neutral. "But it's for the greater good."

"Right," he says fiercely, "right. The greater good - I'm endangering the greater good, isn't it? That's your objection?"

"Yes."

"Then - then I quit," he says, and your world shifts.

"You can't."

"Who says I can't? People Fall. It happens."

"Not you," you say, rushing forward, reaching for him. "Not you - you don't, not good people -"

"Just live naturally - I'll live hundreds of years even after Falling, you can still see me -"

"You're not talking sense," you cry. "You're being stupid - Jake, you don't understand what you're talking about!"

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," he says, excitedly, standing up. "Dirk and I have been talking -"

" _Dirk_ and you!" You're furious again. "Dirk - it's always Dirk, isn't it, it always comes back around to Dirk. Dirk, Dirk, Dirk, I can't remember a conversation we've had that wasn't about  _Dirk!"_

"That's nonsense, Jane, and you know it. And I love you, but he's told me things, about angels, and I think that, after some consideration -"

"Consideration," you spit. "A daemon told you to Fall and you agreed. That's not consideration."

"You're being unfair." You're being worse; you're being cruel again, but you're angry and you're scared and you don't know how else to be. 

"Unfair! Unfair is to leave me, your partner, who you've known for hundreds of years, for the first pretty face that looks at you like you own the world. There'll be thousands, Jake, you're attractive, but I can guarantee you that this won't last."

"What do you know about love?"

"I will punch you again," you say, "I swear to God -"

"You won't give Roxy the time of day! Even though you're crazy for her, I can see it, Dirk can see it, Roxy can see it, anybody with half a brain and a functioning pair of eyes can see it -"

"I don't give Roxy the 'time of day' because I'm not interested in leading her on. And we're not talking about her."

"I don't see how we can have this conversation without talking about her!"

"What's 'this conversation'?" You're guarded. "What do you think this conversation is?"

"About us," he says. "Us, and Dirk, and Roxy, and - and what we're going to all do with ourselves."

"I will tell you what we're going to do with ourselves, Jake," you say. "It isn't a conversation. Dirk and Roxy are going to continue living the lives they have. And you and I, we'll go on living ours, and helping people. Like we were made to."

"Like you were made to. Jane," he pleads. "I'm not made to help. I'm made to - well, I don't know what I was made for, but I'd at least like a chance to figure it out for myself, instead of a whole Host of people telling me what it is!"

"You're not being fair!" Something warm and wet cuts a line down your cheek and you touch it disbelievingly. It's a tear, glistening in the dim lamplight.

"To who?" He cradles his head in his hands. "It's not fair to you for me to leave, it's not fair to me to expect me to stay. You know what I say, Jane, the real unfair ones are the people who put us here - you know, the Employer."

"That's heresy."

"Mild order, Jane, and nothing compared to what I'm about to say," he snorts, and then, giving you a heart attack, "which is: _fuck_ the bloody Employer."

Your pitchfork falls into your hand on reflex and his eyes turn the size of saucers. "Take it back, Jake."

"Not for a hundred years' vacation," he says weakly, still staring at your weapon. "Please put that away, I don't really think you intend stab me, or if you do, you'll regret it later."

You close your eyes and will it away. "You," you breathe, and then, inhaling deeply, "I can't - you -"

"I'm going to Fall," he says, "and like it or don't - it won't change; Dirk is -"

"Who you're choosing," you say.

"What?" His face wrinkles. "Don't set it up like that, all ugly, Jane, you're better than that. You know full well that's not how it is."

"It is. Maybe you don't see it that way, but that's the way it is." You take a shaking seat in the chair opposite him. "And I. I can't fault you."

"Why - no, no, you're being ridiculous -"

You swat away his hands when they try to grasp you. "Don't. Just. Just leave." You lift your eyes to meet his and feel something deep and ugly settle in the pit of your ribcage, gnawing chunks of your heart. "You made your choice, didn't you? If I can't change your mind, then that's fine, and I - I won't try to. I won't even report you. How's that for support? I'll cover for you every day of my life. Every day I have left." You scrub angrily at your eyes. "I will keep you safe, you absolute damned -" your voice stumbles and you swallow harshly, forcing down the quiver, "- you absolute asshole, because I love you, and I've always loved you, and - not in the way Dirk does, but - in my own way - cowardly, I know, but it's not - _less_  than Dirk's, for that, you know -" 

"I know."

"So I'll lie to anyone who asks me a word about you," you continue, "and I'll keep your secrets, like I've _always_ kept your secrets, but do _not_ ask me to watch it happen."

His face softens. "Jane?"

"You want to Fall?" You stand up, forcing him to retreat. "Fall. But you take your daemon and do it somewhere else, because if you've got a kind bone in your body, Jake English, you _will not make me watch_." 

His mouth opens and closes, and he nods. "Oh. Okay, Jane. Whatever you say."

"Yes, whatever I say." You lift a finger to the door. "There's your exit, Jake. I pray to the Employer that you will be very, _very_ happy with it."

"Jane."

"Leave," you say, and your voice is high and cold. _"Leave."_

At some point, Dirk emerged from the bedroom, and stands in the entryway, hesitant and palpably afraid. You're darkly glad of it. 

Jake's lips thin and he closes his eyes, nods again, and leans forward to kiss you on the forehead. You permit it only because you can't summon the words to tell him off. 

"Come on, Dirk," he says briskly, and then, pausing in the doorway; "Thank you, Jane."

You say nothing. He goes.

Dirk hovers inside. He seems to be working up the courage to say something to you, but, much like you, he seems to come up short. At length, he settles on, "Thanks." 

"I loved him first." You say it quietly, for his ears only, and perhaps even hoping that he doesn't hear. "And I always will, Dirk. Don't forget it." 

His jaw tightens and he bobs his head in acknowledgement. Then he, too, goes.

* * *

Later that night, you lay flat on your bed and scream until a neighbor runs over to knock on your door. You keep screaming until the screaming turns into crying and the crying turns into sleep, and blank sleep turns into dreams of glazed red eyes and brilliant green ones and the swirling kaleidoscope of brown and pink that you haven't seen in years.

* * *

The first mission you get after the assignment in Quebec comes four days later. It includes your name but not Jake's. You take this to mean that he has followed through with his plan, although you entertain the notion that perhaps you have just received separate assignments. It's an idea you only consider when you're feeling particularly miserable and want to make yourself less so.

The order sends you to Boston, which is a relatively short plane flight from Quebec, but you take your time getting tickets and book yourself in first class. You pack up the things you want to take - your cooking set, which includes some finer utensils and a few nonperishables - and a book of music that you purchased while re-learning the piano. You also retrieve a few of Jake's pistols. You still hate them, but it's a nostalgic kind of hatred that you'd rather die than part with.

On three separate times you break down trying to sort through Jake's things and throw some away. Eventually, you hire one of your neighbors to come help you toss out his clothes and knickknacks, assorted possessions that you didn't even know he had. The things that look most valuable you put in a box labeled 'JAKE' down by the street corner. By the end of the day, it's gone.

On the last day before you leave, you find his address book, shoved between the mattress and the bedframe. Whether to hide it from you or just because he didn't know how to store things, you don't bother thinking about; instead, you page through the lines of neat green ink desperately, clawing through addresses and phone numbers and points of contact that have been out of use in years.

You find Roxy's number tucked in the back of the book.

* * *

She picks up after two rings with a cheerful, "Yello?"

You take a deep, shuddering sigh, steel yourself, and then break down crying.

* * *

She meets you in a restaurant downtown, wearing a thick purple coat and her cheeks nipped pink with the autumn wind. Before you can say so much as a hello, she launches herself at you and wraps you in a tight, suffocating hug, squeezing the worry and the breath from your lungs. "I'm sorry," she says immediately. "He told me."

"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry."

Your head tips forward and rests on your shoulder, and you breathe easily.

* * *

She chews with her mouth open and you've never found anything so charming in your life. Really, everything about her is some kind of miracle; you take your eyes off her maybe twice during the encounter, and it occurs to you that having no pictures of her is a goddamn tragedy at best. You think Terezi will forgive you this.

When you finish telling her the story, she cocks her head to the side and sits back in her chair, eyeing you with a critical interest. "So you love him?"

"You know what I mean. Not that way."

"No, I get you. But still. Bites ass to have your boyfriend dump you." She frowns. "Get dumped? I'm not sure who's the dumpee in this equation."

"I don't think it's relevant, actually."

"Yeah. You're probably right." She drums her fingers on the table. "I could yell at Dirk, if you wanted. Kick his ass around a bit."

"Please don't. I'm not angry at Dirk."

"Really?" She lifts an eyebrow. "Seems like you're angry at Dirk."

"I'm angry at Jake." You push your food, untouched, around on your plate. "But angry isn't the right word, really. I'm just. I feel ugly. I feel ugly things, I suppose."

"I get that." It's miraculous, really, because you believe she does; she says it so simply, with such recognition in her voice, and you wouldn't believe it from anyone except her - the idea that anyone but her would really, instinctively  _know_ what you're talking about. 

"I don't want to." 

"I get that, too." She leans over and touches your hand on the table, hesitantly, and then, with more bravery, lacing her fingers between yours. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Janey, but sometimes I really fucking hate your job."

You slide your fingers in between hers and close your eyes. You feel empty, but there is something to having her there which fills a different empty part of you. She is warm and real and with you, for once, and it strikes you as kind of miraculous, but you are still missing half of yourself and it _hurts._

"Sometimes I really fucking hate it, too."


	6. Chapter 6

You cope. 

Roxy writes you letters, which you either burn or hide thoroughly enough that you can be confident of your privacy in reading them. For the first time, you write her back; then, with the invent of the mobile telephone, you can call her, within certain geographic limitations. You don't see her, or if you do, it is in small portions, carefully negotiated and surreptitious meetings snatched behind a bar, or under a bridge, or atop a church in some tiny rural village that hasn't seen an angel in fifty years. You feel more and more with each time you see her that you are living on stolen time.

It isn't illegal, to talk to her. Nor is it illegal to enjoy her company. But -

_People who don't take my advice very rarely come to good ends, Ms. Blueberry Freeze._

It's unwise, ultimately, to test Terezi. Encounters with Roxy are ridden with tension and the ever-present fear that at any moment one of your overseers will converge upon you and strip you of honors right there, or worse, exorcise her. You can tell that she's irritated by your caution, but she permits it, because they're the only circumstances under which you'll agree to meet her.

She tells you about what Jake and Dirk are doing, although for your own benefit she doesn't go into much detail. Apparently she and Dirk have parted ways, after a brief and unanimous discussion about how proximal she wished to be during Dirk's honeymoon phase, and are on as close terms as can be maintained through phone calls and brief outings alone. She says that they're in Singapore, at present, with a trip to the Philippines planned for next month. Jake appears to be enjoying his vacation. Dirk appears to be enjoying Jake.

"He asks about you," she tells you, too, after recounting your friends' adventures in the Lion City. "He's desperate for news, you know. Assignments. Quality of life. Anything."

"He could stand to write me, then."

"Don't be dumb. He doesn't know if he can."

"Can? His hands work just fine." You fiddle with a piece of lint on your coat to avoid giving her your full attention.

"Stop it. You know what I meant." When you're reluctant to answer, she prods, "He doesn't know if you want him to."

"And what if I _don't_ want him to?" You lift your chin. "Maybe I'm cross. Maybe I'm a little pissed, still, and I don't want him flaunting how lovely his new boyfriend is for a thousand or so words."

"Well, that'd be a great reason," she concedes, "if I didn't know it was, like, total bullshit."

"It's still a great reason. It's the reason I'm sticking to, anyway."

"Fine. But he's going up the fucking wall, you know. He's not used to not having, like. A job."

"Should've thought of that before he quit, shouldn't he?"

"I get you're pissed."

"Understatement of the eon, congratulations."

"Okay, whatever.  _Whatever._ Fuck over your relationship, see if I care. Just trying to prevent later emotional trauma."

"Angels don't associate with Fallen," you say, more softly, attempting to seem less bitter than you are. "It's -"

"Forbidden, ooh, BFD -"

"No, it's not, but it's looked down upon. Like consorting with -"

"Daemons?"

"I was going to say _humans_ , but as you insist on completing my sentences for me, we will inevitably have misunderstandings."

She snickers. "Fair."

"I just don't want to talk to him, at present," you insist. "Give me time."

"Aight, whatever you say, Jaycee. I'll let him know."

* * *

 Time heals all wounds, it's said, but people always neglect to mention how much time any given wound needs. Five years pass without Jake by your side relatively uneventfully. Your superiors, perhaps sensing your emotional volatility, give you easy assignments. The upside to this is that your melancholy damages mostly nobody, except for a few more senior citizens that wouldn't notice if you keeled over dead in their living room. The downside to this is that you're bored out of your mind, with nothing much to think about except Jake and Roxy. Neither of whom are immediately available to you at any point in your missions. Overall, they're a five years of mild agony, interspersed with fits of exquisite misery. You're infinitely grateful when they end, and you get an assignment to the mountains in Nepal, where you shut down a drug ring and free three victims of human trafficking. It at the very least requires more concentration and subtlety than you had hereto used, and eats up three years. By then, the ache of Jake's absence has faded. 

The Cold War is a busy time for the Host. Demons sprout in schools, offices, government facilities, curling around the bodies of children and soldiers and government officials, seeding fear and feasting on paranoia. The USSR and the United States become breeding grounds for your natural enemy, and there isn't an angel among you that doesn't feel it. Seraphs go back into active service. Every pair of wings available becomes necessary and essential; it's during these years that you miss Jake most of all. He was always better at fighting than you were. You don't doubt that he would have loved to be an angel during the Cold War - it was the kind of fighting that always made him feel like he was doing something _substantial,_ instead of standing around and waiting for people to die. You just feel tired. You heal and heal and heal and it never seems to be enough.

It ends in 1991 and you almost pass out in relief when you read the headlines. There's widespread celebration amongst the Host.  _It's over,_ you hear.  _We're done._ And you're not, of course. Nobody thinks for an instant of being  _done,_   _permanently;_  only relieved, temporarily, from their former stresses.

Except you. You think about being done. There's always another war. There's always another demon. There's always another, and another, and another, and -

"another," you say, raking your fingers through your hair. "I've - I can't  _count_ how many I've fought, ones that make the one in Edinburgh look childish -"

She smooths your hair. "Shh. I know. I know."

"There was a squadron that I'd fight with, and - and three of them are _dead,_ and nobody thinks about it, like, oh, hey, maybe we should consider why we aren't taking more active measures -"

"What could you do?"

"Nothing!" Her fingers tug gently at the hair at the nape of your neck, grounding. "Nothing at all! There's always more fear! There's  _always_ more fear. It never stops."

"There always is." She's quiet. "But you saved a lot of people."

"I did. I could have saved more." You knit your fingers and twist them to the point of pain. "There's always someone else you could have saved."

"You did the best you could. You survived."

"Just to die in some other war," you say, and she yanks at your hair with force. You yelp.

_"Don't."_

"I - sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I'm happy to be alive, of course."

"Good."

"How many more?" You're so tired. "I just. How many more?"

She's gentle with you again. "As many as you can," she reminds you. "That's what you told me. You help as many people as you can. For as long as you can."

You sigh through your teeth and roll your head back. There's an ache in your neck that seems like it's been there for years. "As long as I can," you agree.

* * *

 Your first assignment paper after the Cold War comes an astonishing two years past its conclusion. You suspect that it took a while for your superiors to settle back into the swing of things, take stock of their faculties, figure out who died and who Fell and who went into hiding for their own safety. You spend the time hiding out in the Caribbean, meeting up with Roxy upon occasion. It's peaceful, if quiet. You expect the assignment when it comes, but it's startling nonetheless.

The paper comes in a neat gold envelope in the mail. You don't bother to question how they know where to find you; you've figured that the papers just kind of  _appear_ wherever you are, without any geographic intent from the sender. The script itself is written in sloppy teal ink, scrawled like someone drafted it during the last five minutes of their lunch break and sent it without a good proofread. You recognize Terezi's handwriting almost immediately.

4TTN: J4N3 CROCK3R

SUBJ3CT: 4SS1GNM3NT NO 9034

M4RK: HUM4N CH1LD JOHN 3GB3RT 

M4RK ST4TUS: CH1LD ORPH4N

LOC4T1ON: SOM3WH3R3 1N W4SH1NGTON PROB4BLY?

D1R3CT1V3: S41NTHOOD 3V4LU4T1ON

D1R3CT1V3 2 (OPT1ON4L): PR3V3NT1ON OF CORRUPT1ON

D1R3CT1V3 3 (OPT1ON4L): D3F3NS3 4ND PROT3CT1ON

M1SS1ON 4PPROV3D BY T PYROP3 4S OF 4PR1L 12 1993

 

It's one of the worst mission assignments you've ever read. For one thing, "somewhere in Washington" constitutes an area of 71,362 square miles. For another, child assignments are notoriously rough. They either die early or are absolutely intolerable, and their parents usually don't take kindly to a stranger inserting themself into the family's way of life, regardless of intention.

You show the paper to Roxy and she snorts. "Did they forget which direction an 'E' goes?"

"That's not the point, dear."

"Sure. The point is that you're going to Washington."

"The point is that I don't know where he is!" You toss the letter on the dining table. Roxy leans against the doorframe casually, watching you work yourself up into a rant. You appreciate her patience.

"There can't be that many orphans in one state, babe."

"You'd be surprised. Of  _course_ Terezi would write this. I bet she knows exactly where he is, and she just decided that I could do with a bit of a scavenger hunt, perk me up after all that awful down time I've been getting lately!"

"Terezi?" Her eyebrows climb to her hairline. "Like. The courtroom girl?"

"Yes." She'd laughed herself to tears when you told her about your trial. You don't find it any funnier now than you did then. "She's a piece of work."

"Most certainly. Damn, I'd love to meet her." She scrutinizes the letter. "Seems all right, though. If he's only a kid, you've got time."

"Not on time-sensitive missions. Which I don't know if this one is! Because she didn't include those notes!" You jab a finger at the form. "There's an entire portion of the application for 'important details,' and she left it entirely blank.  _Entirely._ I cannot  _believe -"_

Roxy shushes you. "Go pack your case," she orders you. "You know what happens when you're late."

"I could blame it on the fact that I don't have any damned directions," you mutter mutinously, and she gives you an unimpressed look.

"Tough luck, Janey. Roll with the punches. Call me when you get there."

"You're awfully eager to get rid of me."

She rolls her eyes and kisses you on the cheek. Kissing is neutral territory between you, these days; nothing has really happened since Vegas, but sometimes you'll catch her looking at you in a way that suggests she'd like it to, and sometimes you'll look at her similarly. As long as you don't  _do_ it, you figure, there's no trouble in wanting to. 

"I'm eager to shut you up. Note the difference."

"You bully me," you complain, but you follow her to help pack your case anyway.

* * *

 On the flight to Seattle, you pull out a pen and write your first letter to Jake since his departure.

_Dear Jake,_

_I am not dead._

_-J. Crocker_

You send it in the first postbox you see when you get off the plane and go about your business looking up a list of orphanages in Seattle.

His reply comes in the mail four months later, because of some strange complication in the postal service that apparently can be traced back to a lack of steady relations between the United States and Guam: 

_Dear Jane,_

_Thank God._

_-J. English_

You laugh at the photo he attaches: a quick snapshot of himself and Dirk, sitting in a park somewhere, tanned and strong and healthy. Jake's face is dotted with a few more wrinkles than when you saw him last, his jawline a bit different, his eyes a bit paler, but it's still the body you know. You keep the photo in your purse beside other valuables; it's the only picture you have of him. You send him one in reply from a year or two back, one of you and Roxy. You hope he appreciates the irony.

_Dear Jake,_

_Don't thank Them, thank me._

_-J. Crocker_

* * *

  **APRIL 13, 2002**

It takes you  _four goddamn years_ to find John Egbert, the elusive little wart.

Sorting methodically through every orphanage in Washington is, it turns out, not a very effective way of finding kids. Your search ends in a town called Maple Valley, which you find to be a perfectly boring little place that's half suburbs and half uninteresting attractions. A supermarket, a mall, a school; half a mile of park, and a few rolling hills in the distance that separate the province from the rest of civilization. The only sign that anywhere else exists is the telephone wires marching westward across the plains.

The orphanage matron takes some convincing to let you adopt. You understand her hesitation. You don't have any actual records, and a backup check on you comes back suspiciously clear. You falsify enough records to let her in good conscience admit you for an interview, and use a mind trick for the rest. It's been a while since you've had the patience to convince someone the old-fashioned way. She doesn't seem like the type to be persuaded easily, either; she's a six-foot tall giantess with iron-grey hair combed back like steel wool, and eyes a shade darker than Jake's. All things told, she scares you a little bit, but her mind folds like any other mortal's.

She takes you back to John's room. It's not a bad place, the orphanage, and you're glad to see that he doesn't live in squalor. He has a small trunk of belongings at the foot of his bed and a few toys scattered across it. He keeps his space tidy, albeit there isn't much of it to clean. The boy himself is a scrap of a person, bones and raw sinew under soft skin, and an eruption of black hair that flops over his face. His glasses are filthy. When he smiles, he bares two enormous buck teeth and deeply dimpled cheeks. You adore him.

He's silent for the entirety of the adoption process, except for words murmured into the matron's ear. He slips his hand through yours when he's leaving, a ratty grey bunny doll clasped in his other. You wonder if he can talk, but your question is answered when he remarks, with all the precision and eloquence of an adult, "Porrim says you're supposed to be my mother."

"Oh." You help him into your car. "Well, I'm not  _supposed_ to be, unless you're so inclined."

He cocks his head at you and you decide to simplify. "I am if you want me to be, but I'm not, at present."

"You're Jane, aren't you?"

"Yes." 

"Cool. You'll be Jane, then," he decides, as if he's solved some great mystery, and then adds, "I'm hungry."

You take him to lunch at the one Chinese restaurant in town and he orders three dishes, all of which he serially demolishes. Afterward, he holds your hand again walking out of the restaurant and asks you if the dragon statues decorating the top of the restaurant are real. You contemplate whether to entertain the suspension of disbelief. It's a short contemplation.

"They're not real. They are very pretty, though."

"I didn't think they were real. I was wondering whether you'd lie." He looks you in the eye and says, "Porrim told me they weren't real the last time we were here."

You're shocked into laughter. "Did she?"

"Yes. Adults lie, sometimes," he remarks, quite frank. "It's okay, but I just want to know."

"You want to know when someone's lying to you?"

"Well," he says, turning his eyes on you inquisitively, "don't you?"

"I do."

"Then there you go."

* * *

 John grows faster than you thought possible. When fed plentifully, he becomes a round child, building musculature and fat where he hadn't any previously. You take up baking again in your free time, now with two people to keep fed and food to put regularly on the table. You've never had a full-time child assignment before, and it's an educational experience for both you and John.

Niggling in the back of your mind perpetually is the concern over the purpose of your assignment. Pyrope was distressingly unclear on why John, especially, needs protection; most of the time assignment papers clearly delineate whether the child is doomed, and if so, when they are to die. For all you know, every day could be his last, and you act accordingly. You acknowledge freely that during the first year or two of your life together you keep John out of the public eye to the fullest extent you can, and put off sending him to school. You acknowledge freely that your behavior could be construed as paranoid. But you blame it on Terezi entirely.

 You email Roxy reports about his condition, as well as shooting off the occasional missive to Jake. It's easier when they're in direct contact; her calls reach you weekly, and now and then Jake can spare a moment to talk to you in real time. Their voices are comforting. It makes it easier, living alone, with only a six-year-old to keep you company. 

He wanders into the kitchen, once, while you're composing an email to Roxy. Audaciously, he climbs into your lap and squints at the screen; you wrap an arm around his shoulders and keep him balanced. He does this, from time to time. You haven't figured out why, except that perhaps he likes hugs, and wintery will be the day in hell when you refuse him.

"Who's that?"

"That's Roxy."

"Who's Roxy?"

"A friend of mine."

"Oh." He looks over the reply chain, which is building on fifty emails and steadily growing. "Where's she from?" 

You pause, think it over, and settle on, "Vancouver."

"Roxy is a nice name."

"It is."

"Do you like her?"

"She's my friend. Of course I like her."

"Neat." He slides off your lap, seemingly satisfied with your interrogation. "Are the brownies done?"

John's interests are simple and few. He likes to make jokes, he likes to watch movies, and he likes to cuddle. His personality on any given day is a mix of whatever movie he last watched and how mischievous he feels like being. You spend Sunday nights indoors, the doors locked as rain courses over the roof, holding him in your lap and watching the latest Matthew McConaughey movie. You have a sneaking suspicion that all of them are a tad too old for him to be watching this young, but he's quiet and enrapt whenever the man comes onscreen, so you don't deny him the pleasure.

He takes to school like a fish to water. John is smart, if not graceful under pressure. He gets good marks. As a reward, you get him a Pesterchum account, which happens to be the account you use to talk to Roxy. Only at Roxy's urging do you remove the parental locks. 

For three years, nothing happens. John at nine years old is friendly and round and full of buck-toothed smiles, and you think you might love him.

* * *

Eleven o'clock on a Saturday night in 2005 finds you watching some meaningless sitcom on television while John sleeps upstairs, and you try to draw the energy to walk up to bed yourself. It's a lazy evening; it's rainy season in Washington, which means the storms have rolled in and showered the house and surrounding areas thoroughly. You are far too comfortable to move. The blankets are nestled around you just so, and you have your phone in hand should anyone want to contact you, and you have nothing at all to do tomorrow but sleep in. You are in a state of utmost contentment.

This lasts until someone knocks on the door, and you have to detach yourself to go and answer it.

The peephole is useless. The storm is going in earnest, lightning every so often peppering the sky, and you can't see a thing. You unlock the door with caution, although all things considered, there are very few humans in Maple Valley that you'd even give the benefit of the doubt in a theoretical fight. You've fought far worse.

You open the door and it's Roxy.

She stumbles into your house and you barely have the thought to close the door. _"Roxy?"_

"Hi," she says, and then launches into a coughing fit.

She's wearing a grey poncho that's sloughing off gallons of water onto your hardwood floors, so you divest her of it as quickly as you can and toss it on the couch. Underneath it she's wrapped up like a nesting doll in layer upon layer of clothing, with nothing but a little handbag at her side, and a scarf wrapped tightly over her face. Only her eyes peep out from the casing of fabric, and she has to scrabble with her scarf before she can get it over her chin to speak clearly.

"Uh," she says. "Hi."

"It's been days since your last email! Where did you - first of all -"

"Sorry," she says. "I'm, uh. In a little bit of trouble."

"Trouble?" You close the door with more force than you strictly intended. "Roxy -"

"Nah, it's nothing, I just had to bolt from my last place. Dude I used to know came knocking and I had to, uh. Beat it." She coughs. "And, uh, I didn't know where to go."

"So you came here."

"Yeah?" She flips back three hoodies in order. "Didn't have much time to think, if you get me. I had a couple hundred in the bank and had to buy a plane ticket, like, pronto, while they weren't tracking me, so -"

"Did anyone follow you?" You put yourself in front of the doorway. "Tell me no one followed you."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, Jane, I lead a group of hella nasty demons right to the door of you and your nine-year-old -  _no, nobody followed me."_

"I was only checking!" You take her coat. One of them, anyway; she's disrobing faster than you can hang things up. "What business is it?"

"Just. I don't know. It's bullshit, don't worry about it." She rakes a hand through her hair. It splatters water across your face and she gives you an apologetic grimace; you go about removing the rest of her wet clothes. "Uh. Nice place."

"Thanks. John's upstairs, don't wake him."

She lights up. "Oh, man. The boy  _himself._  I've heard about this dude for years, I wanna see him."

"You can see him in the morning. He's sleeping."

"Damn, Janey." She flops over on the couch and you despair for the state of your cushions. Her hair drizzles slowly onto the pillows behind her. "Y'all got all motherly and shit since I saw you last." Her grin is lazy and teasing, and you're drawn towards the couch like a small satellite to her gravity.

"To be fair, it's been some years."

"Too long. C'mere, you haven't given me a decent hug yet." She opens her arms, and you have to sidle awkwardly along the couch to hug her. You don't mind, even though she gets your shirt wet and her hair is cold against your face. 

She turns her head towards the couch and you wriggle around so you can lean against her. You've missed this - the simple comfort of having her close to you, of doing something mundane and boring together. She fumbles for the remote and knees you in the stomach and it's kind of a little bit perfect.

"What are you watching?"

"Jeopardy."

"Oh my God, that's the most boring thing in the world." 

"It is _not_."

"Gimme that, I'm going to put on something interesting -"

"It's trivia! How can you not find it  _interesting -"_

"Well, you see, if you, like, think about that sentence even a little bit, you'll very soon understand -"

"Shut up."

She settles into the couch so that your head ends up pillowed in the curve of her neck and her arm drapes over your shoulder. You're conspicuously aware of the many, many inches of skin sharing contact at the moment.

Her eyes are dark pink when she looks at you. "So," she says, at length. "Whatcha been doing here, Janey?"

Your mouth is dry and also very close to hers. "Oh, you know," you say, aware of how stupid it sounds in light of the fact that she probably  _doesn't._ "Baking. Piano. Taking care of John. Other related disciplines."

"Anything else?"

"Well, I write to you."

She's looking at your mouth. You think she's definitely looking at your mouth.

"Yeah."

"You should stay the night," you tell her. "We've got a spare room."

"Mmhm."

"It's been a while," you say. 

"That it has."

"Missed you."

"Missed you, too."

You wait for her to add something, but she doesn't. She elects to take the nonverbal approach; which is to say, she leans forward two inches and kisses you. Heat blooms over your face and runs down your back, and you pull yourself up to kiss her, too.

* * *

You wake up before Roxy does, sprawled over her on the couch under three blankets that you somehow wrangled yourself into during your sleep. You detach yourself and go to make breakfast, doing your best to rearrange her comfortably under the pillows and such; she still makes a soft noise of complaint when you extricate yourself. You think it's adorable and subsequently quell the thought.

It's nearly five o'clock. Rising early is nice; the house is quiet, and the world outside is dim, and everything hasn't quite sunk in yet. Everyone is still waking up, and you can get things done. 

You make two cups of coffee for Roxy and yourself and go back into the living room to offer her breakfast. 

John has invited himself onto the couch and is sitting on top of Roxy's legs, watching Sunday morning cartoons like he hasn't a care in the world for the stranger he's using as a seat. Roxy, for her part, looks bemused and not in the least put off by the presence of a nine-year-old inviting himself onto her calves. He cups a chin in one palm and stares at the screen placidly; she sits up on her elbows and carefully shifts one foot, the other.

"Hi," he says, without looking at her.

"Um. Hi."

"I'm John."

"Yeah, uh. Hi. I'm Roxy."

"Oh." He breaks his gaze away from the television and turns to look at her in mild surprise. "Roxy Lalonde?"

"Yeah? I mean, like. You could call me that. Just Roxy, officially."

"Jane tells me about you." He hesitates, and continues, "I figured anyone with pink eyes was probably okay."

"You did?" She chokes back a snort, but only barely.

"You can trust people with weird eyes." He says it with utmost confidence. "And Jane would've kicked you out if you weren't cool."

"Huh," she says. "Really?"

"Yes. Please don't move, I'm trying to watch the cartoon."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." She turns to you, wide eyed, and shakes her head slightly in amazement. You stifle a laugh and have to go back into the kitchen to stop yourself from spilling the coffee.

* * *

She sits down and tells you both stories of her past five years. Apparently she'd spent time drifting around the deep South, celebrated Mardi Gras once or twice, found herself in Nebraska, of all places. Stumbled across a few old friends and fallen in with them, unfortunately. She'd paid off her debts, but apparently her friends were disinclined to let her walk away from a clique once she'd rejoined it.

After John leaves the conversation, she adds, "They were looking for daemon blood, not money, but it's not like I can tell that to the authorities."

"What were they, cultists?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "There are a lot of people who want this choice bod, Janey. Can't fault 'em."

"Please." You shove her. "You're insufferably narcissistic."

"And you love me."

"I made no such confession," you sniff, but she knows when she's right. It shows in the catlike grin that she bares, right before she leans over to kiss you.   

* * *

John teaches her how to do a card trick. She, in turn, teaches him how to do the thirty-four other card tricks that he knows, and he goes slack-jawed as she performs one after another in rapid succession; if you had to pinpoint one moment when he starts to love her, it'd be that one.

* * *

"Like, Jane," she says. John is using her as a stepping stool to reach the flour on the upper shelves in the kitchen. You're perched on the counter and watching in amusement.

"Hmm."

"If you want me to go -"

"No," John says, clearly. 

"Okay, bud, but let Jane say her piece, right -"

"Does Jane want you to go?" 

Roxy watches you from the corner of her eye.

"No, she doesn't," you say.

"There you go." John pats her on the head absently and withdraws the flour. "You stay."

"Um." She blinks and then nods. "Okay."

"Good. Please help me get down."

* * *

She teaches John how to play videogames in her spare time, and you can hear them yelling at each other from your bedroom. You have to cup a hand over your mouth to hide your smile. 

* * *

She learns how to bake after watching you work through a cookie recipe alone for the fifth time, and being entirely unhelpful for the entire process. The experiment is an independent argument as to why you should never let anyone except yourself ever do  _anything_ in your kitchen.

"To be fair," she says afterward, when John is happily gnawing on the few unburnt pastries you managed to salvage from the wreck, "I think it was a pretty good attempt, all things considered."

* * *

You teach John the piano, and there's something deeply satisfying in putting your fingers over his and hearing him draw melody from the instrument, first with your aid, and then on his own - simple finger exercises in the treble clef, and, later on, melodies pulled from across the keyboard. He gets to be good, and you consider yourself to be a half-decent teacher. The two of you play duets together that go on for hours into long afternoons, with the sun streaming through the window and your hands warm on the sunlit keyboard. 

* * *

For a while, you are so happy.

* * *

**APRIL 13, 2009**

Someone knocks on your door at eight o'clock. Roxy is out making a grocery run; John is in his room. It's only you downstairs, fussing around the kitchen and preparing for dinner. Looking back on it, you'll wonder why you went to the door. You'll wish you had locked the door and went about your business as usual, and leave whoever it was outside to rot. Looking back on it, you will regret that that was not what you did.

You went to the door to find a short, needle-thin man with an undercut standing on your front porch. 

"Uh, hi," he says, "Jane," and you're immediately suspicious.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

"Yes? Um. Can I come in?"

"Tell me what you want, first," you suggest. "I'm not in the business of letting people freely into my house."

"Um. This is awkward." He tugs at one of his earlobes. "I, uh, well. I'm Tavros Nitram. Terezi sent me."

Your stomach convulses and you want to fling the door shut; you resist, clinging to the doorframe with a trembling hand.

"What?"

"She, uh. Well. It's time?" He spreads his hands. "You're, uh, relieved of duty. Congratulations."

"What do you mean, relieved of duty?"

"You can go home? Or wherever you wanna spend your time, I guess. I'm s'posed to, for the time being, take care of the kid. Take care of, meaning, of course -"

"What do you mean,  _relieved of duty?"_

"I mean, he's done?" He tilts his head like he can't wrap his head around your anxiety. "He qualifies? For sainthood? So, uh? That's what's gonna happen?"

"You're going to take him away."

"Technically?" He shrugs. "Anyway, if you could, maybe, open the door -"

Your pitchfork drops out of nonexistence and into your hand. Tavros starts, and then a lance falls into his own hand, pointed and about fifty percent longer than your body. The serrated end is painted bronze, and he slants it toward you defensively.

"Hey, now, I don't wanna get into a fight over this, okay, if you just, put it down -"

"You're going to kill him."

"No, he's going to, like, a higher place -"

"You're not stupid enough to believe that!"

"On the contrary, I think you should consider, maybe, I am exactly stupid enough to believe that -"

You lunge. He parries your thrust and shoves you backwards, sending you skidding into the living room; he's denser than you had expected, and you have to reorient your stance around the new information. You plant yourself in front of the stairway and point your pitchfork at him.

"You can't," you say. "You - you can't -"

"Yes, but, consider: I really can -"

You try and hit him over the head with the butt of your weapon and he sweeps your feet out from under you in a fluid movement. You manage to get a prong through his ankle on the way down, and he cusses, kicking you away. You slide and then spring up again. There's pain in your right shoulder and a looseness along your jawbone that means nothing good. It's been too long since you fought anybody. Your body's forgotten how.

"Please stop -"

 _"No,"_ you spit, and attack again.

He doesn't even make an effort, this time, side stepping you and then hip-checking you with such force that you have to open your wings to avoid crashing through your living room window. "You are really, not, like, helping, miss -"

"I won't let you -"

"Please," he repeats, "desist -"

Your next attack is sloppier, as is your consequent second, and third. Each time Tavros seems happy to just move out of the way, never using his lance offensively, instead batting away the stabs of your pitchfork. You have to slow after a certain point, and he accommodates you, never trying to finish you off or even really end the fight. He is passive to a fault, and it's the most unsatisfying fight of your life.

"Just - fight  _back!"_

"No, I, uh, think that would be kind of contrary to the spirit of what I'm trying to do, which is help -"

"Tavros," you say. "If you - if you care at all, you won't - you'll go away, and you'll let me just - let me just  _have -"_

"That is not what Terezi said to do, so I think, perhaps not -"

"Please -"

He makes a small noise of frustration and then something collides with the side of your head, and it knocks the words right off your tongue. You go down hard and your pitchfork skitters across the floor. You realize belatedly that Tavros had bashed the base of his lance against your temple, but you can't hold onto the thought for long. It spins lazily in circles over the surface of your consciousness as you struggle to regain lucidity.

"No," you manage. "Tavros -"

But he's already escaping up the stairs, and his goal registers too late for you to grab him. Instead you stumble to your feet, scrambling after him, taking the stairs on your hands and knees.

You catch up to him in John's room and get him around the collar. He's already put John to sleep, and the boy lies on his bed, thirteen years old and looking so many years younger - you can see the boy he was when you adopted him, clear as day,  _five years old -_ you don't know if it's the probable concussion causing your hallucinations or the desperation driving you to imagine things that aren't real, but it doesn't matter, ultimately. Tavros swats your hands away as easily as if you were a doll, and you sway with the effort of staying upright.

"Tavros," you say. "I - okay. You win."

This, at last, halts him. Surprise registers briefly on his face, before he schools his expression into something more professional. "Good. Right. Thank you, for being reasonable."

"Sure. Sure. Just -" You press a hand to your temple and blink, hard; the world momentarily stops spinning and you can focus. "It's okay, right? This was always the way it was going to happen. This is the way the Employer wants it to be, he'd die anyway, right, that's why they become saints -"

"Yeah, that's -"

"Fine. Fine!" You straighten up and smile, which clearly unnerves him. "Okay. Tavros. I don't know what would have happened to him, otherwise, but if the Employer says it's so - the Employer says it's so. Right?"

"You know - it'd be worse if you let him, uh, go in the other way -"

"So the Lord giveth," you say, and he appears unnerved at your serenity, "and the Lord taketh away. It's simple. I understand it."

"Oh. Good." He shifts from foot to foot. "So -"

"So. Let me do it." You put yourself between him and John. "It would - it would give me closure, Mr. Nitram, if you would let me do it." You try not to sound like you are begging; you probably fail. But at the very least you no longer seem angry.

_You can't let him put his hands on your son, he's your son, John Egbert is your son and you're not letting anyone else -_

"Well." He bites his cheek. "That wasn't in the, uh, in the orders?"

"The orders don't know the difference. A soul is a soul." You are collected. You are peaceful. You are rational. You're good at your job, always have been. "What does it matter if I do it? It'll give me closure, Tavros." You add, "Please." 

He tugs at his shirt and then shrugs aggressively. "Well, uh. I mean. If that's what you want, then, uh, sure, whatever." He nods. "Closure, okay. That sounds good."

"I knew you'd see sense."

You approach John's bed. He's sleeping. 

"I can do it," Tavros offers, "if, uh, if that's something you want."

"Don't you dare."

"Uh, okay, yeah, sorry -"

You put your hand on John's chest and lean over to kiss his forehead. He stirs gently in sleep, mumbling an incomprehensible line of gibberish, and stills again.

A soft little glow passes over him as you pull his soul out. It drifts from his body, a glistening curtain of gossamer-thin mist that twists around your wrist once, twice, brushes gently over the skin of your palm, and then floats up through the ceiling.

Tavros says, "Well done."

"I know it was. Don't talk to me." You do not look at him; you watch your son as the last of him slips from view. "Leave my house."

"I'm -"

"If you do not leave my house," you say calmly, "I will remove you by force."

He doesn't question the validity of your threat. Instead, you hear the quiet _snick_ of the door as he leaves, pulling it shut behind him.  

* * *

You stand in John's room hours afterward, knowing what you have to do and hating it.

You start with his toys. They go in a box. Then his pranking supplies; they go in a separate box, along with his books, the things you know he'd have wanted to keep. You dig through his drawers and fold up the clothes; they'll be for Goodwill. 

You find a drawer full of papers in John's desk and pull them out, handful by handful, revealing hundreds of pages of his sloppy handwriting. You splay them out on his desk and flip through them, picking out the occasional notice that catches your eye. Organizing them by the neat dates in the upper right-hand corner, you can almost piece together a chronological series of entries; almost like he was keeping a loose-leaf diary. 

 

_May 1_

_jain is very nice. she does not talk so much but that is ok. i know what she means anyway and it is always kind things. she makes a lot of cake which is not so nice but i eat it anyways not to hurt her feelings about it. she probably thinks i like it which is because i am a good actor. i personally think she is very good at baking so it is not her fault that i do not like cake_

_-john_

 

_September 12_

_My teacher says i have to capitalize the first letter of every sentence so that is what i will do. Again jain has made cake for my class start of school party which is well meaning i am sure but i do not like. Roxy did something funny today and i laughed so hard i cried and then roxy looked at me very strangely which is to say i think she was happy but in the way that makes you afraid of being sad? if that makes any sense which it probably doesnt. anyway i think there are a lot of people who never feel so happy they are afraid of being sad so it is very fortunate that she gets to although i wish she would not be afraid. Roxy is not usually afraid_

_-john_

 

_April 10_

_I met a person online whose name is Jade and who seems to be very nice but of course as Jane says you should not put all your trust in people online so i went to talk to Roxy about it. She said that if you dont give the person any of your information it will be ok but also that i shouldnt worry too much because if anyone tried to really actually hurt me Jane would kick their ass. I said that was a bad word and she said yeah but its ok because its the truth. i do not understand how a bad word is ok if it is true because words are only true because of context. at least that is what Jane said about it when i asked her. She also said 'god damn it Roxy' under her breath in a way that said she thought i couldnt hear. I did though. apparently they both use bad words so i tested the waters about me using them and both of them looked at me with Roxy looking very amused and Jane looking very angry and i decided right then that it was not a good idea_

_Perhaps there are some things that only grownups get to do_

_-john_

 

_December 22_

_I googled what a mother was because apparently Jane is not mine according to biological things which dont make a lot of sense and Jane refused to explain to me when i asked but Roxy seemed very happy to upon request. Apparently it is a female person whose DNA i have but i dont know what female person gave me DNA or actually even if any female person gave me DNA because i have never heard of any such person and in fact suspect it is a myth. after all Jade says mothers are just female people who take care of you and that the entire thing is subjective anyway so i have decided that Jane and Roxy are my mothers. I will have to consult them of course because it seems to be the kind of thing that requires consent but overall i think they will be pleased because i brought it up to Roxy once and she almost cried_  

_I will report further results when they come_

_-john_

 

_July 18_

_Jade says that not everyone has two mothers which baffles me. It seems to me that everyone should have at least 2 mothers if not more but she said that for example there are some people that have no mothers and some people who have only one mother and i figured that both were very sorry situations but she said that not everyone grows up in the same way as me, which i understood, and agreed with. i asked Jade if she had a mother and she said no. then i asked if she had a father and she said no. i asked her well how on earth did you GET here if you didnt have a mother or a father and she said she was probably an orphan like me but she hasnt asked her grandfather about it yet. and then_ I  _asked her well what in PETES sake is a GRANDFATHER, also i am very sure you are making this up. she became cross with me then. i stopped pressing the issue but i am not convinced. Still i have been wrong about these things before_

_I asked Jane if she had a mother and she said no_

_She also said no when i asked if she had a father or a grandfather or anything else and she says she has no relations but rather "came from nothing into something quite suddenly", which. I mean i dont know what that means but it sure sounds pretty. She is terribly cryptic sometimes_

_I asked Roxy if she had a mother and she said yes, but she had not seen hers in a long time. and i said if Roxy is my mother then wouldnt that make Roxys mother my grandmother? then she did that thing with her eyes where she looks miserably delighted and said Yeah, that would, wouldnt it, and spent the rest of the afternoon telling me about the strange witch lady who is apparently my grandmother_

_On a side note i think my grandmother is what Roxy would call a bad ass but i cant actually say that in front of Jane without her going and yelling at Roxy for a while so_

_-john_

 

_January 29_

_I have met other people on the Internet. One of them is named Rose and she is probably smart enough to be in college. It makes a guy feel kind of stupid to talk to her but i actually like it because she talks to you like an adult would, and when you are nine almost nobody talks to you like an adult would. She is the kind of person you can talk to for hours and not get bored around. However this is mostly because she will talk for hours and has a lot of interesting things to say. Just explaining her handle took about three pages of chatlog where i said absolutely nothing. I was so awkward around her though! It was so embarrassing. I had to go and ask her to be my friend and she almost turned me down but at the last minute said hold on let me write this down word for word:_

_"I believe an allegiance between people of our two distinct natures could be a fascinating study in sociocultural distinctions"_

_Which probably means she will be my friend i think?_

_Anyway she has another friend named Dave who is cool but doesnt talk all that much so you really have to work to keep up a conversation with him. Jade introduced me to both of them and says that they are trustworthy like her. I tell her not to worry about it because my mother will kick the ass of anybody who is mean to me and she said "which one??" and i said "both of them"_

_It almost feels like bragging to talk about my 2 moms when Jade doesnt have a single one so i think i will stop that maybe. Rose has a mom but she doesnt like her and Dave has a Bro who is really weird! But he asks about my parents sometimes so i tell him the cool stories about Roxy trying to bake and setting the oven on fire and Jane trying to play contemporary music. He tells me stories about how his Bro takes him to stores where he has to sit alone in a kind of ball pit thing and wait for his Bro to buy the weird puppet stuff he likes and i tell him that he should come to live with me if he isnt happy because i have more than enough moms to go around_

_but i dont think he will though_

_-john_

 

_March 2_

_Upon further reflection i believe that i am going to sic Jane and Roxy on Dave's Bro because he doesnt seem like a very kind person. In fact he seems kind of shitty. when i told Jane she seemed to be very angry and went into the room where Roxy was and there was some heated discussion going on but i could not hear. This was irritating for a number of reasons. First, i think i am entitled to hear discussion of what will happen to my friend. Second, there are many things which they think i am not old enough to know which i know already. For example, i know where babies come from. Jane thinks i do not and makes me cover my eyes when we are watching a movie with a sex scene, but i know whats happening. I really think it would be better if they were honest with me_

_Ultimately however we could not do anything because Dave refuses to give out his address, and instead makes me mail things to his PO box. He says this is so Bro will not notice or take the things I mail him. But he I think also does this because he is afraid that someone will come and take him away from Bro. He has a complicated relationship with this concept. I asked Rose why he wouldnt want to leave, because shes rather good at the psychology stuff, and she says it is for a lot of complicated reasons. I said, yes, that is the point of asking you. Please tell me. But she would not. I am so frustrated_

_-john_

 

_August 17_

_Jane and Roxy are acting very much like kids around each other today, which kind of grosses me out. Its also kind of cute though. Roxy is flirting with Jane pretty obviously and Jane is trying to act like she doesnt notice and failing. Maybe they slept together. Maybe its inappropriate of me to consider that question but as a young boy who is probably going to start growing soon, i dont think its ridiculous to consider such things as possible. Besides, Jade seems convinced that my moms are sleeping together, because she says shes never met any two moms that lived together that didnt love each other in some way. I think its silly to imply that Jane and Roxy dont love each other. Of course they do_

_Also Jane has been looking nervous this afternoon. She checks the mail regularly. Or, more regularly than usual. Sometimes she gets letters from Uncle Jake, but those never cause her so much stress. Perhaps it is something about her job? She always seems to be nervous about her job when Roxy brings it up, which i guess is not often_

_-john_

 

_August 18_

_Never mind, apparently it was definitely because of something about her job. And somehow it involves Roxy? I guess its a grownup thing_

_-john_

 

_November 5_

_I sent Jade's shirts in the mail today. They should be reaching her soon. I also bought Dave's present, which is a radical pair of shades, and Rose's, which are two of the coolest knitting needles i could find. She is the kind of person to knit. She should have a hobby. I definitely believe that she will appreciate my gift, even if she will say she doesnt, or say she does in a way that implies she doesnt. Jeez does she talk in circles sometimes_

_Their thirteenth birthdays are coming up and i think it's a little unfair that they get to be so much older than me. It is also kind of weird that they all were born so close together. Oh, well. There are a lot of coincidences in the universe._

_Jane is calling me one moment_

_-john_

 

_April 12_

_I asked Jane what she did for a living today. She tuned quite pale and asked me why i would ask her a silly question like that. I said, because it wasnt silly at all. She said all right and told me that before she met me she had been a soldier, a healing soldier, like a doctor but for all kinds of people. She said that it was a very difficult job that took her all over the world and that was where all of her stories come from. She said that she met Roxy when she was doing her job in South Carolina, and that for years afterward she and Roxy kept meeting in strange places. It occurred to me that the odds of this are pretty low, but Jane says that coincidences happen._

_Jane does not seem to like talking about her job. She says that it takes a lot out of you and she was happy when she stopped doing it to live with me. I said that i was glad she stopped doing it, too. Roxy is probably glad as well. Roxy doesnt talk about her life before me much at all but she seems to suggest that it was a time of a lot of unhappy things, or at least general unhappiness with a few happy things in between. She also talks about Jane in the past as someone very different from the Jane i know now_

_I asked her what i would be when i grow up and she said, anything you want to. I couldnt imagine having that kind of freedom. Doing anything you want to! Going anywhere! I want to travel, i think, but i could not at the moment think of where. I will have to ask Jade about it at a later date. Or Rose. They both know exactly what they want to do when they grow up. I am not sure, but i think that once i am old enough i will go to every place that Jane and Roxy have ever been and see all the places that they saw. It will probably take me a while but thats ok. If all grownups are as old as Jane and Roxy are then there will be plenty of time_

_When i ask them to take me to these places Jane shakes her head and says, maybe when you are older. Roxy reluctantly agrees with her. I think its kind of silly to talk about these places all the time and not expect your son to want to know about them and go there, but maybe they dont see it the way i do. Either way i cant stop thinking about all the many wonderful places in the world that i would like to go, and id like to stop thinking about them, but when i lie down and try to go to sleep all of the pictures they showed me crop up behind my eyelids and i have a wonderful time looking at them. I dont understand why they wont let me travel anywhere besides this one boring old town but then again_

_Perhaps there are some things that only grownups get to do_

_-john_

 

You throw down the letters and slam the drawer shut.

Roxy appears in the door. "Jane?" Softly. "Are you -"

You stand up. "I hate them," you say, quietly, your voice cold and low and you can't really feel much of anything except an overwhelming numbness that's crawling up from your stomach to your lungs to your neck. "I hate them  _so much,_ Roxy, I can't -"

"What do you - no, you don't, babe, listen -"

"No, I do! I  _hate_ them and I hate them for  _doing_ this, I hate  _Pyrope_ and  _Nitram_ and the whole bloody  _Host,_ I hate them and I wish they'd go drop dead -"

"That's not true."

"It is," you say, and the numbness reaches your head and you have trouble thinking clearly. "I just - I just need to  _think -"_

"It's okay, right, Janey? It's okay, just, just calm down -"

"I will not! I gave my  _life_ to them and then I ask them for  _one_ thing, and I can't even have that -"

"Janey -"

"They take and take and take and for  _what?"_ You round on her, brandishing an handful of John's letters. "He's  _dead_ and I don't get anything, none of us get anything, they just demand that you give them whatever they want and never give you anything in return! It isn't a  _job!_  God, I hate this. I _hate_ this. I hate having to live for something I know I'm going to have to lose, I'm sicking of losing friends, I'm sick of losing people - they take everyone from you, and someday you'll be gone, too, like everyone always  _fucking_ is - like Terezi's partner and my partner and you, too - they just -"

"Jane?" Her mouth is slightly ajar and you remember what it feels like to kiss it and when you blink you think you can see Terezi standing behind her, watching you impassively with her dead red eyes.

You bolt. You push past her and stumble down the stairs, sprinting through the hallway, bursting through the front door and into the street. You run until your legs are burning, and then you run some more. You do not stop until Maple Valley is nothing more than a blemish on the horizon behind you.


	7. Finale

Your legs give out near a hospital in Seattle, and you have to sit down. The sidewalk is uneven and hurts your rear, but your legs are petrified and probably wouldn't walk another step if you told them to. Your phone buzzes incessantly in your pocket. At one point, you grow tired of it and toss it away. You have no desire to talk to anybody, just now.

Watching the parking lot of a hospital is either uplifting or grounds for a tragedy. There's such emotion written in the bodies entering the hospital, leaving it, dallying in the entrance. Speed and posture tell you everything about why they're here. You sit against the sun-baked wall and watch, watch, watch, nothing moving but your eyes for hours of the day. The peace is incredible. You just sit and watch humanity roll past.

By and by you stand and wander into the hospital yourself, strolling in on the tail of a large group of family members toting silver helium balloons and armfuls of roses and a handful of toddlers too young to understand what's going on. Nobody questions one more amongst their party. You make yourself look as concerned as possible and tag along. 

You ditch them in the lobby and wander into the patient storage rooms. The stench of illness clings to most things here - illness or sterility, equally unpleasant in separate ways - and you're used to it. You've been in thousands of hospitals. You've worked in dozens of hospitals. You got your M.D. in the nineteenth century, so you don't think they'd allow you to practice anymore, but all things considered, you've healed more people than anyone in the building.

And it's a distraction, of course. It's clean, sweet distraction.

A doctor presses past. There's ash stains on his labcoat and half a sandwich jammed in his mouth and a clipboard on both hands, upon which he is scribbling furiously, apparently giving no thought to the stranger wandering the halls of his ward. You pause and wait for him to order you out, but he only mumbles, "Either find your room or get moving," and even that is hardly intelligible around his sandwich. 

"Pardon?" 

He breathes shortly through his nose, pulls the sandwich out, peers over his thin pair of spectacles, and says: "This hallway is major thoroughfare for surgery. Find your relative or find your office, and quickly."

"I don't -" You glance at the door behind you and knock on it. "This. This is my, ah, friend."

He squints. "That's an operating room." 

"Oh." 

A frown knits itself across his face. "Should I be calling security?"

"I would prefer you didn't - I'm, ah, I'm a doctor. I'm just here to, ah. Scope out a new job opportunity." You're out of practice lying through your teeth and you can't figure out whether to be disappointed in your lack of skill, disgusted with your disappointment, or relieved at your ineptitude. You settle for all three, concurrently, in a horrific state of emotional paralysis.

He points his pen at you. "Front desk. Unemployment is high, funding is low. Apply at your own risk." He stops, skeptical, and then adds, "And if you don't get a fucking move on, I swear to God I _will_ call security."

"Okay," you say; "Okay, ah, front desk, of course -"

A gurney rolls past and a white-robed woman shouts something at your doctor; he whips around and snarls, "I'm talking here, Peixes, give a guy a fucking five-minute break, God knows I don't get one otherwise," and then shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. "Jesus Christ -"

He sprints after the gurney, and you do too, drawn by the pull of an injury. You're unused to the feeling. John was never hurt seriously, under your keeping, and so it's been a while since you've felt a soul fluttering as it clings to its body - but you push the thought of John far back and trot in the doctor's wake as he shouts orders at the others. Apparently he outranks the woman who called to him, as the attendants instinctively respond to his caustic instructions - or perhaps they're just attuned to his orders. Either way, they're too absorbed in his directions to notice you drifting along behind.

The gurney bursts headfirst into an operating room and the doctor tosses his clipboard on the nearest table. "Let me change into scrubs," he orders. "Peixes,  _stay your goddamn hand_  - I'm better than you on gastrics and you  _know_ it - Ampora, get me ten CC's of whatever the fuck will keep him under and hook him up, yes, I expect your goddamn cooperation, no, I do not care that you're sore - I want that motherfucker sleeping like the dead in five minutes, I don't care if you shoot him up with  _heroin_ so long as he doesn't feel it when I cut him open -"

You cast a glamour on yourself and huddle in the corner, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Realistically, you don't think that they'd notice you even if you were buck naked and dancing, so focused are they on their subject. Intrigued, you drift closer, trying to get a good feel for the patient. You note that he's got a growth on his spleen the size of your fist and at first glance you think it's benign, but on closer inspection can see it pressing against the skin of the organ. Highly painful, if not under anesthesia.

The doctor you spoke to comes back into the room, tugging a hair net over his afro and pulling on a glove with his teeth. "All right, Peixes," he orders. "Open him up."

The man he called Ampora makes a noise of objection. "Dr. Vantas -"

"Don't you 'Dr. Vantas' me, when I say 'put him under,' I mean, 'knock him the fuck out,' Eridan!" 

"I haven't had time to study the fuckin'  _case -"_

"Ask me again when I care. Is he sleeping?"

"I mean, yeah, technically -"

Not in any other sense; the patient is going, certainly, but he's going to feel it if they start cutting. You close your eyes and reach for the patient's mind, and push him the inch further into unconsciousness. The heartbeat monitor slows to an acceptable pace and you can hear Ampora's breath of relief.

"Oh, thank God, okay, should be fine, Doc -"

"'Doc' me again and I'll put you on this table myself," Vantas snaps.

"Ooh, wow, you're real fuckin' funny, threatenin' your anesthesiologist, must be the first surgeon to act like an ass on the OR floor -"

"Boys!" Peixes seizes a scalpel and jabs it in Vantas' general direction. "Karkat, you  _are_ good with gastrics, so get  _on_ it, and Eridan, I will knock your glubbin' guts out if you don't stop picking fights with the head doc! Sorry, Doctor."

Karkat takes the scalpel and makes a grunt of assent. "Listen to the surgeon, Ampora, she's smarter than you are."

"Go suck a diseased dick, Doctor."

"If you wanted action, all you had to do was ask," he replies flatly, and makes an incision.

The operation moves quickly. They're an efficient crew, despite the bickering; once everyone shuts up and gets to work, they move like a well-oiled machine. Ampora hovers in the background, monitoring statistics and vitals from a multi-paneled computer; Peixes murmurs advice and updates and hands Karkat the instruments as he works. You put careful pressure on the man's consciousness and keep him under, an ill-noted but vital part of their procedure nonetheless.

But it's not working. The man is slipping; despite Karkat's best efforts, the tumor's removal isn't going to do anything. It's already spread past the point where a surgery would do anything for it; you've seen cases like these, and you know that it's not going to work. Removal of the source won't change the effects. The surgery needs to be followed with extensive chemotherapy for the man to survive, and even then, survival is not guaranteed.

Unless, of course, you do something.

Which you can. It would be a breach of heavenly law, interfering in mortal affairs without divine directive. It's a violation of cause and contract and risks exposure to a group of three medical professionals, all of whom have recorded evidence of the interference.

But it's what Roxy would do. It is, without question, what Roxy would do.

So you think, _fuck it,_ and you reach - metaphorically speaking - into the man's spleen.

It's like coming back to a bicycle after years' absence. The feeling of a body under your sway is strange and a little alien, but familiar enough that when you concentrate on the areas of growth around his damaged organ you can recognize the threads and lines of disease sewn in among healthy cells. Removing cancer is more difficult than almost anything else: you have to methodically pick out the diseased cells, one by one, and kill them before they can multiply. Luckily, the surgeon in the room takes care of the majority by removing the growth, but you're still weeding mostly blind through millions of particles to find the few select sources of malignancy. If you miss so much as one, the entire exercise is fruitless. You shouldn't be enjoying it. You are anyway.

There's something magnificent about just helping someone. A body under your sway. Simplicity in the labyrinthine mechanisms of sinew and blood and bone, the miracle of life subject to the press and pull of your hands. Life. That's what you're doing, isn't it? Just giving life. Just helping people, all you ever wanted to do. You miss the days when it was this simple.

The surgery is finished after two grueling hours of removal. Karkat makes tiny, precise cuts at the tumor and removing it piece by piece. You hardly have the concentration to pay attention to what they're saying, absorbed in your own work, and when they finish it takes you by surprise. You wrench the last two diseased cells out of his body just as Karkat puts the last suture through skin and claps his hands, a noise that echoes through the quiet room. "Done," he announces, but it lacks triumph. "Ampora, feel free to de-drug him."

"You ass, you know full well that's not -"

"Remind me to give a fuck, one of these days," he says dryly, and retreats. "Peixes, I'll do the paperwork for this one, go check this sad sack back in. Give him tests, run checkups, fuck, I don't need to tell you how to do your job."

"Not a problem, Doctor." She slings an arm around Ampora's neck and smiles brightly. "Congrats. Job well done, that."

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks." He's already stripping off his gloves and heading for the back room.

The pair of them watch him go and then Peixes turns to Ampora, her face stern and reproachful.

"C'mon, you know full well he was provokin' -"

"He wasn't provoking anything, you big baby," she says lightly, and then elbows him in the ribs. "Help me wheel this guy out of here."

"You think he's fine?"

"After all that, he better be."

* * *

You mean to leave. Time passes by in the operating room and you spend hour after hour watching surgery after surgery, watching, lending the occasional hand. You see Peixes twice more, Ampora thrice, but Karkat makes no reappearance, until the very end of the day, when he pops in for a brief pacemaker installation. You watch him carefully. He moves more surely, this time, but with a lethargy that belies a tiredness that goes beneath the skin.

You follow him when he leaves the room and linger outside his office. You only belatedly realize that you're still under the glamour, and take a moment to remove it before going in.

He's out of scrubs again, wearing the same white coat. When you enter he looks up with a curl to his lip that says he's got a stinging remark on his tongue, but when he sees you, his face softens into confusion. "Oh. Haven't you found the front desk, yet?"

"I had," you say, "but I - I thought I might have a word."

He indicates the chair before him with a pen. "For the record, I find this all highly weird," he informs you, "but what the hell, I'm almost off."

"Right." You twist your fingers.

_Illegal; this is highly illegal -_

"I was wondering if I could have a position?"

"I told you, inquire at the front -"

"It's complicated. I don't - I'm not a doctor."

"Well, there's a lot more to a hospital than doctors, news flash. If you want a position in management -"

"No," you say, quelling your growing frustration. "I - I can't explain."

_This is grounds for trial and expulsion from the Host, this is criminal -_

"Try." Karkat's pen twirls between his fingers. 

You sink into it and cast around for a way to explain yourself. "I. Uh."

He lifts an eyebrow.

"How's the man? From earlier."

"Uh, fine, probably. I didn't do the post-ops. More interesting question is why you're asking about it."

"I -" You stop as Karkat flips through the papers on his desk and the edge of one catches his index finger, nicking it. He swears bitterly and sucks it, shoving back the reports. 

"Show me that," you ask.

"What the fuck?" He extends the cut finger anyway. "Why?"

You blink at it and the skin knits itself together.

His jaw drops open.

* * *

"Here's the deal," Karkat says, handing you a white coat. "Your name is Doctor Crocker. You hear me? There is a 'doctor' before every goddamn instance of introduction. No Miss. No Madam. I don't care if it makes you sound like you've got a stick up your ass. If you were a doctor in 1875, you are a doctor now. So help me God."

"Okay."

"You graduated Yale. No, shit, I have colleagues from - Harvard. Harvard Med, okay? Specialized in osteology. You're thirty-five, live downtown, only did private practice before now. I'll take care of your paperwork."

"What paperwork?"

"The paperwork that says you're a fucking doctor, and/or _person,_ you Godly shit. I assign you cases, and if anybody _ever_ asks you where you get the authority to do something or why you're here, you direct that rude motherfucker to yours truly, namely, Doctor Karkat Vantas, M.D."

"Sure."

"You take directions, Crocker?"

"Not rather well, as of late," you say lightly.

He rakes his fingers through his hair and rubs hard at the corner of his eye. "Fuck," he says. "Okay. Okay, fine. You know what? If you can cure cancer, Crocker, I guess it doesn't really matter one way or another."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Karkat."

"Of course."

* * *

Dr. Jane Crocker is officially born on the nineteenth of April, 2009, which is the startlingly short amount of time it takes Karkat to forge your birth certificate, passport, and medical history. She works in St. Mary's General Hospital for the next five months, more or less without vacation, and sans contact with anyone outside the hospital.

You come to know the other doctors, or at least those within Karkat's circle. He has a handful of friends in the nursing department who you get along with fine; a cardiologist named Aradia, whose skill with a scalpel is unmatched, and a couple of medical students on residency who worship him as their god-king. The lead anesthesiologist on staff is Eridan Ampora, who complains more than he works but does good work, when he gets around to it; and then there's Feferi Peixes, who has three degrees from Yale and could shock a corpse back to breathing. She wields the defibrillators like weapons and you swear that once or twice you see her physically shove someone's soul back into their body after it left. She's four feet eleven inches and nobody so thoroughly terrifies the rest of the staff. 

It's awkward, getting back into the swing of medical procedure. Sometimes someone will hand you a medical tool and you'll have no idea what to do with it, or ask you to fill out a form that you haven't the foggiest idea how to finish. Sometimes patients will ask you for advice on subjects that you're unqualified to deal with; in the early months of your tenure, you ask Karkat for help more times than you finish cases by yourself. He covers for you only because you save somewhere around eight hundred lives in that time. The other physicians take to you rather quickly, after that.

"Maid of Life," Aradia tells you, dropping her tray next to yours. You're tucked in the corner of the cafeteria, by yourself, and formerly moderately satisfied with the arrangement. You don't know Aradia that well. You don't know if anybody really does.

"What?"

"That's what they call you. In the student groups? They think you're a wizard."

"Just hard work," you say. It's what Karkat told you to say, when people ask. "Hard work and a touch of talent."

"A 'touch'!" She crosses her legs and cups her chin in her palm. "Sure. A _touch."_

"I'm flattered."

"Everyone's half terrified to talk to you." She gestures broadly to the cafeteria, and you give it a cursory scan. Nobody seems particularly terrified, in your opinion, but maybe she sees something you don't.

"You don't seem half terrified."

"No." She tilts her head. "You have a family, Dr. Crocker?"

"A brother." Half-lie; easier to deliver, comes out smoother on your tongue. "Disowned."

"Boyfriend? Girlfriend?" Aradia's gaze is dispassionate and clear.

You choose your words carefully and avoid her eyes. "A girlfriend."

"Oh, nice. What's her name?"

"Roxy."

"That's a pretty name. What's she like?"

"It's been a while since I've talked to her."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"My own fault."

"Well," she says, eyes glittering, "if you ever want to bring her around."

"I might."

"I'd love to meet her."

You look at Aradia and think,  _She'd love to meet you, too._

* * *

You keep meaning to call Roxy. You mean to call Roxy for a month, and then two, and then three. But you can't think about her without thinking about John, and about Terezi, and about what will happen when any of the powers that be notice your absence, and what will happen to her - and you think yourself into a panic. Guilt gnaws at you the longer you wait to do it. Five months pass this way.

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 13, 2009**

The cases run until almost one in the morning. The last surgery is a knee replacement that gets messy, and you have to work overtime on it. Almost nobody can keep their eyes open when you're finished and you head down to the cafe to restock on caffeine; Karkat doesn't let you off until your last surgery is done, which won't be for another few hours. Then you'll go back to your apartment, which is half an hour's bus ride away, and - it's not a good night.

You order a triple shot espresso and wait for the barista to come back. The cafeteria is empty and dim, lit only by painfully unflattering fluorescent lights. Your pager is going off in your pocket, and you silence it. They're playing jazz music, the kind that people complain about in elevators, but you rather enjoy it. You were proxy to some of its first concerts.

The barista sidles out of the back room and you absently give her your attention again. Her back is to you, at first, so you don't notice until she turns around with two brimming full black coffees that she isn't the barista at all. Not until you feel a tightening in your chest do you realize that you've stopped breathing.

"Hi, Jane," Terezi says quietly.

You draw your pitchfork and hold it in front of you. You suspect it would be more impressive if you could still your hand from trembling. "Stay away from me," you say, and the quaver of your voice belies the alleged authority of the command.

Her gaze flicks from the points of your weapon to your face and back again, twice, flatly, as if to suggest a snarky remark where none could properly befit the stupidity of your choices. She can't even see and somehow she manages to suggest with nothing but a look that you're embarrassing yourself. 

"Sorry," you say, and lower it.

"That's more like it. Come greet me proper."

You lean forward and kiss her quickly. You are conscious of the glass windows of the cafe, which she seems to have no concern for.

She smacks her lips and hops up on the counter, offering you one of the coffees. "How are you, Doctor?" She stresses the false title like it's a sweet between her teeth.

You take the coffee with trepidation. "I'm fine." Slowly: "How about yourself?"

"Tired of running after your stray ass, if I'm being honest." She tugs down her glasses and fixes you with a dead-eyed stare. "You're making me miss desk work."

"No, I'm not."

"No, you're not. But you're coming close." She sips the coffee and then spits it out, with dignity. "Coffee is disgusting, Jane."

"Uh. I'm sorry?"

"Irrelevant. Ask me why I'm here."

"Why - why are you here?" You wrap your hands around the coffee cup to warm them and try to still the rushing noise in your ears. Visions of being ousted from the Host and damned run before your eyes and you blink hard to dispel them. Terezi's fallen on your side of a legal dispute before. She could do it again.

Then again, she might just as likely be here to gleefully dispatch you and send you to Hell for all eternity.

"That's a good question. Do you want the technical answer or my opinion?"

" _You_ told me to ask the question!"

"No creativity. None! God, all the Host's a snooze fest, I haven't had an enjoyable assignment in decades."

"Me neither," you volunteer, and her smile drops a little bit.  

"Yes, well, darling, the difference between you and me is that _I_ still do my job."

You bristle. "And what a job that is."

She sets her cane across her knees. You read the threat clearly. "Speak carefully, Dr. Blueberry."

"I am. I - I will. I meant no disrespect."

"You smell of lies. Also, bleach. You would be surprised how similar they are!" She takes another swig of coffee, swallowing this time. "So. Back to the question."

"Why, technically," you say, speaking carefully, "are you here?"

"Technically, I'm here to expel you from the Host," she says. "No trial, preordained verdict. Dreadfully boring, but there it is." She spreads her hands.

"Which is why you're not doing it," you say, tightening your grip around the cup. Coffee spills over and scalds your hand. You don't move. 

Her grin broadens. "Go on."

"What I mean to say is that it's boring, so you are not, right now, doing it. It wouldn't be interesting, doing it without - talking to me first."

"Spoken like a professional. And?"

"Which leads to the question," you continue, aware you tread on thin ground, "of your opinion."

"So it does. Neat and tidy, your syllogisms. I'm here to see what you're doing, and whether it's interesting."

"And if it isn't interesting?"

"Well," she says, curling her tongue around the straw. "Executions are never boring."

"Right." You drink. 

"But! Trials get tiresome. I am so bored, Dr. Blueberry. So!" She flings her cup somewhere over her shoulder and it tosses coffee everywhere. You wince. "Tell me a story."

"Which story?"

"Yours, you silly doctor. Why are you here instead of on your assignment? Did you not receive the papers?"

"I did."

"Did you not understand the papers?"

"I did."

"Did you have a legal objection to the content of the papers?"

"I did not."

"Were you in some way impeded from carrying out the instructions given?"

"I was not."

"Did you receive official relief from a superior to neglect the instructions?"

"I did not."

"Well, that's enough to convict you here and now. So tell me the story." She folds her fingers over her cane and plants her chin on them. "Start wherever the beginning is and go from there."

You set down your cup and endure the empty, miserable feeling of having nothing to lose.

"It's about John."

"The kid?" She tilts her head quizzically. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's dead."

"Yeah." Her eyebrows pinch together. "That was always the plan."

"It was _not_ -"

"You were supposed to evaluate him for sainthood, Doctor, what did you  _think_ was going to happen to him -"

"He was only thirteen!"

"People die younger every day. We've _taken_ younger. What's your problem with it?" She lifts her head from the cane and regards you with a confusion you cannot understand.

"He was _my_ kid."

"No, he wasn't."

"He was for seven years."

"And now he's not. Haven't you ever done assignments like this?"

"No - and I don't want to - it's awful. And you sent Tavros - _Tavros_ \- to finish the job for me?"

"Well, I knew you wouldn't," she says crossly. "You're too soft for that kind of thing. I was being kind."

"It was not _kind!"_

"Well, fuck _me,_ Crocker, what did you want?"

"I wanted him to live past puberty, preferably!"

"So he can die again later? It's seventy, eighty years, it goes like the blink of an eye."

"Not for him!"

"But for you," she continues, baffled. "He wouldn't have - what's -"

"He's just a kid. My kid."

"That's selfish. He's immortal, now! A respected member of the family!"

"And I don't get to see him," you blurt.

She's silent. You're silent. The jazz is suddenly much less pleasant.

"Well," she says, at length. "That's very selfish, Dr. Blueberry."

"Stop  _calling_ me that!"

"Why? It's what everyone else calls you. Doctor."

"I'm not. I'm not! I'm lying to everyone and anyway I'm not a doctor to  _you_ , so just -  _stop_ it." You look away from her.

"Fine. Miss. Jesus. Still selfish." Her fingers drum on the counter. "As I see it -" She stops and waits for you to laugh.

"Very funny."

"Thank you! Anyway. You're a different person than you were last time I met you, to be quite honest."

"And you're not."

"Aren't I?" Her smile is jaded. "Doesn't seem like you're trying too hard to get a read on me, busy as you are with worrying about being expelled."

You sit down slowly at a table. "I'm not," you say, trying out the words on your tongue. 

"You're not."

"Worried. About being expelled." You draw a pattern on the table with a fingernail. It's a little ghost. John would carve it into the trees outside your house, like his own personal crest of arms. "If I am, then - so I am. Jake's been happy, all these years."

"Nobody ever had any concerns about  _Jake,"_ she says. "Everyone knew his employment was a time bomb just waiting for a handsome blond to waltz in and blow it all to hell." She considers. "I mean, I assume he's handsome. Maybe he's ugly! I don't actually care."

"Could have fooled me," you deadpan, and she laughs.

"Being out of service makes you mouthy, Crocker. I like it. I can't get along with an angel that doesn't use their brains. They're great subordinates and terrible agents."

"I thought the Host loved subordinates."

"They do," she says. "I don't."

"You're an interesting Seraph, then."

"I'm a bad Seraph," she tells you frankly. "I wasn't supposed to have this job. It's been - what is it, thirty years? Fifty? Can't remember, desk work seems to take eons - and I haven't had a genuinely  _fun_ assignment since - I don't know. Before I made the cut." Her foot beats methodically against the counter. "It's life tenure, though, which is nice - can't be expelled; on the other hand, can't go back."

"Do you want to?"

"More than anything." She twirls her cane. "Did I ever tell you about my partner?"

"No." Your hand pauses in its path around the ghost's tail. "You just said she was dead."

"I bet you heard of us. Very effective, us two. Held the record for demon kills - 'course, that was before the war. She was great. Deadly as shit! Unstoppable." She taps her cane in between beats of her foot. It makes for a distracting rhythm. "Got carried away. Couldn't take orders. She wanted to make Seraph, of course - didn't know what it meant, I bet, she'd have  _hated_ this job - and started talking mutiny. An old school, revolt-against-heaven deal."

"Did she?"

"You think there was a revolt against heaven and you just _missed_ it? No, of course it didn't happen. Thanks to me."

"What did you do?"

"Killed her," she says matter-of-factly. "Sword through the back. Short and sweet. Or maybe not. I've never actually been stabbed in the back! Bet it stings like a bitch."

"Why?" You watch her carefully. Her face is closed and apparently nonchalant; her voice, however, wavers. 

"Assignment. Why do you think? Rogue angels are dangerous. I'm good at killing. Put two and two together and you get four."

"Do you regret it?"

She rolls one shoulder uncomfortably, like there's an ache she can't get out. "Interesting question. She would've killed a lot of people. A lot of our friends. I made a smart decision."

"Do you _regret_ it, though?"

"Wish I hadn't needed to do it," she says, in a tone informing you this will be the last question she permits on the subject. "Does that answer your question?"

It doesn't, but you say yes, and she appears mollified.

"So," she says, planting her cane on the floor and stilling the tapping of her foot. "Back to the question of you, Madam Blueberry. There has been far too much banter and not enough substantive reasoning in this evaluation."

"I like banter. It's better than being expelled."

"That it is! However, it is not nearly as productive." She reaches over into the glass pastry display case and removes a croissant, which she subsequently stuffs in the mouth. "Let's talk about expulsion.

"Falling is simple. You lose your powers, keep your lifespan, lose your wings. Neat and tidy. It's very popular. Death is simple. Lose your life. Oblivion after death, no afterlife. I've researched both." Crumbs tumbling from her mouth as she speaks belie the importance of her lecture. "Expulsion is not simple. Lose your powers, lose your wings, sure, makes sense. But what happens to your lifespan?"

"I don't know."

"You lose it. Not your life, mind, but your  _lifespan._ So you die. Normally. Like a human does. You ever heard of the Morningstar?"

"Everyone's heard of the Morningstar."

"No, not everyone has, which is why I'm asking you, dummy." She whacks you on the shoulder, but it's a gentle whack, and unlikely to bruise all that badly. "They didn't Fall, they were expelled, which is why they died. And there's a mortal afterlife, too, for the expelled. It sucks ass."

"So you're going to -"

"You're never going to find out what I'm going to do if you  _keep interrupting."_ Another whack, delivered with less gentility. You apologize, quietly. 

"Contrary to popular belief," she says, "I'm not a hardass."

You snort despite yourself.

"It's true! I convict fifty percent less people than the rest of my cohort combined. And I like you. Genuinely. I don't want to see you die. You're far too interesting. And I need entertainment! This job is  _killing_ me." She spreads her arms. "Look at me! I'm skin and bones."

"You were already skin and bones."

"And now I feel it twice as much. Stop avoiding the subject. What do you think I want you to do?"

You consider it.

"Fall," you guess.

"Bingo." She flips her cane along her knees and rests her elbows on it. "Immortal. No wings, but let's be honest, how often do you use those, anyway? We've got planes."

"Or powers."

"You're still immortal. I'd call that a bargain, considering the alternative." She pinches her nose. "You can't - _stay,_ in the Host. That's a fact. I am presenting you with your options."

"Let me think about it."

"I would, but I have orders."

"From _where?"_

"The Employer. They're a testy bitch, Crocker, I'm not in the mood to piss them off today." 

You rest your head in your hands. Something hot springs up behind your eye and you blink it away roughly. "I need time."

"Tough." Terezi is unforgiving. "You've had years. If you haven't figured out how you feel about the Host by this point, more time isn't going to do anything."

"I don't - they're awful, but I can't - I don't  _hate_ them, and I don't know what will happen if I leave."

"Why don't you ask Jake?"

"It's different. He has Dirk, and he's  _good_ at living on his own, without anything to - to ground him -"

"You have a Dirk," she says plainly.

"I - no, it's not the same thing."

"Why not? Your lady, she seems nice."

"Roxy is - different. I don't. I want to be - I like her, of course, but she can't possibly -"

"This isn't about Roxy." She folds her legs. "This is about you being afraid."

"I'm not." You are.

"You are." She nods sagely. "And you'd be dumb not to be. Smart people scare like nobody else. Only stupid people aren't afraid of terrifying things."  

"I'm just." You rub your eyes. "I'm so tired."

"Yes." She hops off the counter and comes to stand before you. "That's all right. Ms. Blueberry. You've served for a long time."

She pats your cheek. You assume it's meant to be comforting, but it's more like a slap than anything else. You wonder if that's intended. "A week," she decides. "Think fast."

You nod. She smiles - thirty-two sharp white teeth beaming at you - and then steals your coffee, and saunters out of the coffee shop.

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 16, 2009**

Dirk agrees to meet you in a small Italian restaurant downtown. You spend the days preceding your meeting arranging for a week's leave of absence at the hospital. Karkat understands, although he's reasonably miffed about it, and he gives you the time you need. You explain that the circumstances concerning it aren't mortal affairs and he lets it be. 

Dirk arrives fifteen minutes late wearing sweatpants and a tank top to a black tie restaurant. You resist the urge to stand up and leave upon sight. You know it's not intentional. He's probably never touched a tie in his life.   

He sits down at your table and studiously doesn't look at you for five minutes, instead identifying the most alcoholic drink on the menu within seconds and ordering three of it. Then he fidgets with the silverware.

"I'm not going to hurt you," you feel obligated to tell him.

"Yeah, I know." He straightens his knife. "It's just weird."

"What?"

"You haven't ever expressed. Interest. Or whatever. In seeing me." His eyes dart up to yours and then again to the plate.

"I believe we got off on the wrong foot. You and I deserve a better relationship than we have, thanks to Jake." You fold your menu and place it neatly aside your plate. "So I thought we could start over."

"Oh. That's cool of you." He looks thoroughly terrified, now. He probably thinks you're here to murder him.

"Would you consider removing your sunglasses?"

"No."

"Is that negotiable?"

"No."

"All right," you sigh. You massage your temples. "That's - that's fine, really. Are you photosensitive?"

"Uh."

"I'm going to tell myself it's photosensitivity, if you don't mind."

"Go ahead."

"Thanks."

The waiter comes back and erroneously places one of Dirk's drinks in front of you. You slide it over to him when the waiter has left.

"I think," you say slowly, "I should ask you a few questions about you - and Jake. That is. If you don't mind."

"Sure." He pushes his sunglasses back up on his nose and reclines in the chair lazily, an affront to propriety everywhere.

"Is he happy?" You fold your hands. "Is he - I don't mean to pry - is he, generally, satisfied? With his quality of life?"

"I - Jesus fuck, I don't know. Ask him." 

"I am not asking him. I am asking you."

"Well, he seems generally okay with. Uh. Shit."

"Does he ever miss being an angel?"

"Sometimes. This is really personal stuff, fuck."

"Yes." You look down at your plate and he does the same. "I, ah. I'm sorry to spring the interrogation on you, Dirk, on short notice."

"S' okay."

"But I am considering a life choice that may affect me in a similar way. That is to say -"

"You wanna -" He makes a plummeting motion with his finger. 

"Yes," you say tightly. "Crudely but accurately put."

"Well. In that case. Seems like something you'd talk to Roxy about, considering - or, I mean, I don't know - like, if you're doing it for her -"

"It isn't the same. She isn't - the  _only_ reason." You take one of Dirk's drinks and sip from it. It hits your throat like acid and you struggle to keep it down. "My job is. It's poor. And I don't - I don't feel satisfied with it, anymore." He watches you impassively. "Can I tell you the truth?"

"Nothing stopping you."

"I hate it," you confess. "I hate not being able to do anything. Unthinkable cosmic power, and you don't ever get to make any decisions. If they say 'this person dies,' they die. If they say 'this person lives,' they do. And you have to  _obey_ them - 'them' being whomsoever happens to be in power. And I. I can't." You struggle onward. "I can't keep doing it."

He nods. "Makes sense."

"Does it?"

He chews his cheek. "Jake says shit like that all the time."

"Does he?" 

"He had problems," he begins, hesitantly; "and he's still got problems with it, but he wasn't all that eager about the 'obedience' shit, for starters. Rubbed him the wrong way."

"Does he still feel that way?"

"Seems like something you should ask him yourself," he says, and again avoids your eyes.

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 20, 2009**

Jake meets you in a park near sunset, wearing a bright blue suit jacket and khaki shorts. It hurts your eyes but you're so glad to see him that it doesn't matter, and you launch yourself into his arms anyway. 

He gives you a bear hug that would choke the life from lesser creatures. "Jane," he says, and his voice is warm, and happy, and so familiar you think you might cry.

"Jake," you say, and you're probably weeping, a little bit. _"Jake."_

* * *

"I don't know."

"What's confusing about it?"

"It's a big deal. I've always been - you know I'm more dedicated to the job, you  _know_ I am, and it's hard to walk away. Willingly." You shred a fallen leaf on the bench next to you. The pair of you are sprawled across one of the benches, your feet in his lap, his arm draped along the top of the bench.

"Yeah, but you'll feel better." He's quiet. "You ever wonder why you kept meeting her everywhere?"

You watch a pair of squirrels chase each other up a tree. "Occasionally. There have been greater coincidences, Jake."

"Well," he says. "The Employer's all-powerful, right? Supposedly. If They're pulling the strings of everything down here, then, well."

"Nobody knows how powerful the Employer is."

"Sure. But presuming that They've got some measure of influence over us. Nothing we do is ever coincidental." He gestures broadly at the park, the city, the sky. "It all means something. You and her, maybe. Golly, I don't know. Maybe They want you to leave. Maybe They know you're not built to stay with Them."

"Not 'built.' What does that mean?"

"Put it this way," he says. "When you were under that library, and you sang your bit and made the miracle happen. How did you do that?"

"I don't know. It was rather fast."

"There you go. An act of the Employer."

"I'm not sure that I follow."

"What I'm saying is that either They've got a plan, and you don't need to worry about it, or they don't. And it doesn't matter."

"I refuse to believe They played matchmaker with me for a century." You tap your foot. "It's ridiculous."

"Maybe it wasn't matchmaker, then, Jane." He's gentle. "Maybe she's just - here to give you a push."

"I want to be with her."

"Then do it," he says. "You know, all of this - all the worry, the puzzles, the reasoning - it won't matter. What the Employer meant, why you kept meeting her, why you're upset. It won't matter, in the end."

"What do you mean?"

"Life goes on," is what he says, cryptically. You ask him what he means. He doesn't tell you.

* * *

You go through the photos you have of John.

All assembled, you have a tiny chronology of his growth from five to thirteen, captured in quick candids and the rare selfie. There are photos of you and John, baking, and you and John, playing the piano, and you and John, curled up in front of the television while he points out the continuity errors in whatever terrible sequel you're watching. Then there's Roxy and John, playing a videogame, or Roxy and John, asleep on the couch, and you and Roxy, too, pictures taken by John when neither of you were looking; and John alone, standing on your balcony, watching people amble down the street with all the excitement of someone witnessing an action sequence in a particularly good movie. Backlit by the flash of the camera, John looks ethereal, light and glowing and so happy.

It's hardly a choice, after that.

* * *

You sit down in your living room to do it. Jake told you how. 

"It's more of a willing _not_ to be," he says. "A genuine willing not to be part of the Host, you've got to hate them, for as long as you can - you've got to  _want_ it, and hold it in your head, and if it starts to hurt you're doing it right."

"Does it have to hurt?"

"If you're doing it right."

* * *

Falling burns _._ It burns like two knives being stuck in your back and twisted, slowly, until you can't feel the invisible wings drifting behind you anymore; you can hardly feel the surface of your skin. You're on fire and you're being frozen at once, and all throughout thought drips out of your mind like rusted water from a broken tap as the pain persists. You can't think, you can't feel, you can't see. You can't do anything but kneel, and endure.

* * *

**SEPTEMBER**   **21, 2009**

Roxy is living in an apartment uptown. It's a nice place. Modern. Black glass walls, marble floors, golden elevators. You're out of place, in dirty clothes and week-old makeup, strolling in at one o'clock in the morning, and the doorman gives you a suspicious once-over, but you can't summon the pride to care. You're exhausted and wet and you want to sleep more than anything, and you haven't seen Roxy in months.

Her apartment is on the top floor. You lean against the side of the elevator and try to clean your glasses. There's a crack clean across one lens from where you dropped them in the Fall, and the other is bent out of shape from accidentally stepping on them shortly thereafter. You're blind without them, though, so you put them on anyways and hope she'll be glad enough to see you that she won't care how you look.

You've been looking for her for days. You haven't slept, you think, since before you Fell. Haven't had a complete meal in longer. You're used to not needing to take care of yourself. It's a bad place to be in. You bet Jake never had these problems.

Reaching her door is an ordeal. You are almost out of breath just in walking there, and your knuckles are bruised; knocking, to put it simply, isn't an option. Instead, you pull out your phone and tap out a weak, brief message: _I'm outside._

Then you wait.

It takes a few minutes. By and by you slide down against the door, convinced that she's either not here or disinclined to see you. You wouldn't blame her.

A rapid footfall comes from behind the door, and then it swings open, and Roxy trips into the hallway, inelegant and sleep-mussed and gorgeous.

"What the _fuck,"_ she exclaims, and hauls you up.

You cling to her. Her arms wrap tightly around your waist and you're disinclined to ever let go of her; she's warm, and _there,_ and you don't feel even a little bit guilty for it.

You pull back to say something and she punches you in the face.

"What the  _hell!"_   It's your turn to swear, now; you clap a hand over the rapidly purpling bruise on your cheekbone. "Roxy!"

"That was for  _leaving,_ you asshole!"

"I - I'm sorry -"

"What the fuck was I supposed to do? Just fucking camp out? Wait for you to come back? Bury him alone? Leaving me with a weird-ass strange angel while you go to sort out your angst -  _fuck_ you, Jane, TBH -"

"I'm so sorry."

"No, fuck you, you don't get to apologize until I'm done."

"I'm -"

"If you say sorry, I swear to God -"

"All right," you say. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, of course. C'mon." She slings your arm over her shoulders and hauls you inside.

She dumps you on her couch and you wince as you land on some sore spots on your posterior. She goes into the kitchen to fix you a glass of water and a cool cloth, and when she comes back, she's still glaring at you. You can't decide how to feel about this.

"I owe you an apology," you say, minding your words.

"Hell yeah, you do. I don't even know  _why_ \- not a word, Jane, you didn't give me a single goddamn word. What the fuck happened to you, anyway?" She dabs at your face with the cloth. It's a little harder than strictly necessary. 

You tell her.

She's still until the end of your story, and even then, she remains motionless. Her eyes are wide and flat pink. You admire them while she's busy gaping.

"You didn't," she says.

"Beg to differ, dear heart." It hurts to speak, but you can't resist.

"You did  _not."_ She springs to her feet and starts gnawing on one nail. "Fuck. I can't - this is my fault. Shit."

"How is  _me_ Falling  _you_ _r_ fault?"

"I was the one to get you in trouble, I kept bitching at you - this is my fucking fault -"

"It is by no means your fault," you say indignantly. "I wanted to do it, and I did. Give me credit."

"Your job is your life!" She tangles her hands in her hair. "I can't fucking believe - Jesus, what are you going to  _do -"_

"You," you say, without thinking, and when she looks at you like you've grown a second head, you choke. "I mean,  _live with you,_ and, generally, be around - travel with - hang around, you know, in the way - oh my God, that's -  _that is in no way what I meant -_ Roxy, stop laughing at me!"

She doubles over. She's almost in tears. "Jesus. Fucking. You fell from heaven to get a piece of this, it's okay, you can tell me the truth -"

"You are making fun of me!"

"No, I'm just so fucking glad - come here, you asshole," she says, and then leans over and kisses you on the cheek. She flops down beside you on the couch and uses your shoulder as a headrest. "You abandoned God to bang me. That's cool."

"Desist."

"Not a chance." She wriggles closer. At length, she says, "I don't understand you, babe."

"What's not to understand?"

"You, like.  _Why?"_

"I didn't want it," you say. "You were right."

"About what?"

"Heaven." You're quiet for a while. Moonlight pours in from the window and paints her hair white. The city is no quieter than in sunlight, but seems softer. "It's not all it's chalked up to be."

"Hmm?"

"I realized. I." You swallow. That hurts, too. "I don't want to be a part of the Host. I can still help people, I just. Don't want to do it by their terms."

"And you're okay with that?"

She watches you carefully.

"I'm very okay with that."

"And you're not gonna. Like. Change your mind when you figure out I'm not what you want, or whatever."

"I've known you for almost a hundred years." You spread your hands. "I won't change my mind now."

"You sure about that?" She bites her lip. "You can't go back. Y'know. I'm, uh. I'm it. For you." She twists a curl of hair around one finger. "Obviously you don't have to stick with me long term, or whatever, but for now. I'm. Shit, you've only got me, and Jake. And Dirk, of course, but mostly. Me. And you gotta be okay with that, and if you're not, we need to sort that shit out, like,  _right the fuck now -"_

"You really ought to shut up," you say, and grab her jaw and kiss her.

She kisses you like she wants to breathe divine grace back into you. Her hands cup the back of your neck and she slings a leg over your hips, drawing closer, closer still, until you've got scant few inches north of your knees that aren't touching her, somehow; you hold on to her collar for dear life and hope you're doing all right. Her tongue is in your mouth and your tongue is in hers, and she slides it along yours and you're overcome by a tingling mix of surprise and  _want._ It's a new thing, want - you knew it, before you Fell, but not like  _this._ It doesn't feel like sin, and you don't see how it could be; it feels like warmth, and it feels like blessing.

"I'm going to teach you," she mumbles, " _so_ much," and a line of heat plunges from your neck to your stomach.

"That," you breathe, "sounds very educational," and she makes an undistinguished noise and kisses you again.

"You are a fucking dork. Even when we're making out, you're a fucking dork. Incredible." She whispers between kisses and then presses her mouth to your neck to give you time to respond.

"I object to that."

"I object to you not shutting up and kissing me," she announces, and you really can't summon the coherence necessary to articulate yourself, after that.

* * *

Sometimes you think that if you had been inside on that night in 1912, things might have played out differently; or if she hadn't jumped; or if she'd left you alone, or if any of the hundreds of subsequent meetings had failed to transpire - what might have happened. The miracle of just being with her, in the first place, necessitated hundreds upon hundreds of tiny coincidences, knit together to make something inevitable.

But such hypotheticals are ultimately redundant. Some things are best left unquestioned, you think, and miracles are one of them.  

**Author's Note:**

> Rating and tags will be updated as new content appears.


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